Original. NEW YORK, MAY, 1837. KAATERSKILL FALLS, Called Catskill Falls. BY SAMUEL L. KNAPP. THE picturesque beauties of American scenery have just began to attract the poet and the painter; and no where is nature more lavish of these beauties than on the Hudson. The palisades are a sufficient proof that the waters of the Hudson which now roll so majestically to the ocean, confined within permanent banks, were once expanded over an immense territory, extending West and North, which in some great agitation of nature tore mountains to their centre for a channel to the sea. Among the sublimest of these beauties may be ranked the Catskill Mountains; the elevation between two and three thousand feet-from the sea-board, affords a prospect limited only by human vision. On the table rock, the site of THE MOUNTAIN HOUSE, the traveller enjoys a most magnificent panorama equalled only in this country, by the view from the WHITE HILLS, in New Hampshire. In a clear morning in June, a sun-rise scene is most magnificent. Aurora leads up the dawn with rosy light transcending even Homeric description. At this moment, the soul is more rapt and delighted than even when the sun bursts with all his glorious effulgence upon the entranced vision of the beholder. Distant States appear in the horizon of the view, and lakes, rivers and harvest lands, with the Hudson flowing like a ribbon in the air, are at your feet. Within a few rods of where you stand there is a deep gulf, with precipitous walls, where everlasting shades and eternal silence reign, in strong contrast to the sun-lit busy scenes beyond. Here the lover of the sublime may gaze with rapture until he is exhausted, and the natural philosopher finds enough to grapple with in contemplating the formation of the Alpine masses beneath his feet. Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well. That like thy Narcessus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flow'ry cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of Parley's daughter of the sphere! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's harmonies." The echo of these falls is not fond of whispering lovenotes; she prefers the brazen throated trumpet and the cannon's roar; these sounds of martial strife suit best her voice, which is often tried by the discharge of a piece of artillery placed there for that purpose. By making a circuit and coming to the site of the first plunge of the falls, you enter an immense amphitheatre, the dome of which is of strong rock; unlike the loose and crumbling stone beneath your feet. The eastern wall of this edifice is of solid rock, while on the western side, the light passes through the sheet of water precipitated from the height of the mountain cragg. This might be called the cave of Eolus, for here you find a refreshing breeze, in the warmest days; and the parallel is well supported, for the air cooled by the water, rushes out to meet that more rarified by the sun. This stream of water flows from two small lakes connected by a natural sluice-way, the largest lake not exceeding two miles in circumferance; they are fed principally by subjacent springs, of course the water is pure as chrystal. At certain seasons of the year when the mists arise most readily from the cataract and the sun darts its rising or setting beams obliquely on these mists, and the winds are hushed, delicate tinges of the Iris may be seen to add new charm to the beautiful spectacle. If ever we become classical enough to erect a temple to Hygeia, it should stand in this region. Here the air is without a foul vapor. The pestilence which walketh in darkness and wasteth at noon-day, never sweeps over these heights, or claimed a victim on these mountains. No equal elevation can boast of such easy access. few hours one may be transported from all the noise, bustle, and mephitic air of the crowded city to these pure regions of health. To this region, in future times, the invalid will resort for resuscitation; those laboring under mental lassitude, for renewed intellectual vigor, and those who flee from the world to cure a broken heart, will here feel the beauties and sublimities of nature operating as a cordial to his mind. On these lofty clifts, the poet may catch inspiration to build an epic to his own and to his country's glory! while the philosopher sinks his shaft into the deep bosom of the earth to draw up its now hidden treasures, future Claude Lorain shall throw by the magic of his brush the mountain scenery all true to nature, on the After refreshing his exhausted frame, the traveller prepares for a visit to the KAATERSKILL FALLS, often || called Catskill, situated about two miles West of the MOUNTAIN HOUSE. The stream pours over a ledge of rocks one hundred and seventy-five feet, at the first dash; then acquiring a momentary repose, takes another leap of eighty-five feet; below this point, the current shoots into a dark clift, or ravine, and is lost to the sight while its murmurings still linger on the car. The ancients would have peopled this gloomy chasm with moaning water-gods, for the poet's inspiration. The varicgated ivy intermingled with rude shrubbery, case the walls of the cavern in which dwells a boisterous echo, unlike that described by Milton. "Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, canvass. In & and some The falls on the Western branch of Kaaterskill, if they stood alone would be also a great curiosity. They have a perpendicular descent of more than an hundred and twenty feet, and the rapids below, in the course of a quarter of a mile, make a descent of two hundred and fifty feet more. In the course of eight miles, the water of the Kaaterskill join the Catskill near the romantic village of that name. The following spirited lines from the never failing pen of Bryant, add much to the illustration of the beauty and sublimity of the scene, of which the engraving is a faithful picture. "Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs; But when, in the forest bare and old, The blast of December calls, He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, A palace of ice where his torrent falls, With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, And pillars blue as the summer air. For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, A hundred winters ago, Had wandered over the mighty wood, When the panther's track was fresh on the snow, And keen were the winds that came to stir The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir. Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, For a child of those rugged steeps; His home lay low in the valley where The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; But he wore the hunter's frock that day, And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. And here he paused, and against the trunk When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk And the crescent moon, high over the green, On that icy palace, whose towers were seen Is that a being of life, that moves Where the crystal battlements rise? A maiden, watching the moon she loves, At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? Was that a garment which seemed to gleam Betwixt the eye and the falling stream? 'Tis only the torrent, tumbling o'er, In the midst of those glassy walls, Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor Of the rocky basin in which it falls. 'Tis only the torrent—but why that start? Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? He thinks no more of his home afar, He heeds no longer how star after star Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late. He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast, From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. His thoughts are alone of those who dwell Who pass where the crystal domes upswell From the alabaster floors below, Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray, And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. "And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!" He speaks, and throughout the glen There pass the chasers of seal and whale, With their weapons quaint and grim, And bands of warriors in glimmering mail, And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb. There are naked arms, with bow and spear, And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. There are mothers-and oh how sadly their eyes In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, The snow stars flecking their long loose hair. They eye him not as they pass along, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, When there gathers and wraps him round A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, In which there is neither form nor sound; The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, With the dying voice of the waterfall. Slow passes the darkness of that trance, On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; They had found at eve the dreaming one The deadly slumber of frost to creep, Original. A ROMANCE OF GOVERNOR'S ISLAND. "NEWS! news!" cried Agnes Gordon, holding up a letter, as she skipped into the room where her grand mother was taking a siesta in her great arm-chair. Mrs. Johnson started up, declaring she had almost fallen into a dose, for it was a peculiarity of that good old lady never to allow she had been asleep. She took the letter from Agnes, and slowly wiping her spectacles, opened it. “It is from your father," she said; and the lovely Agnes seated herself on a low stool at her grandmother's feet to listen to its contents. She gazed in her grandmother's face as she read, and her heart took alarm as she observed the shade of sadness which passed over it. "Well, grandma," she exclaimed, "what does father say?" Mrs. Johnson laid the letter down, and parting the dark ringlets which fell over the fair brow of her grandchild, gazed long and sadly in her face. "We must part, Agnes." "Part, grandmamma!" "Yes, dearest-your father is coming to take you from me. He has left Fort Gibson, and will be stationed at Governor's Island in New-York harbor, which being so near the city, will enable him to give you such society as the daughter of Colonel Gordon would quire. But I will read it to you." Happy had it been for Agnes if she had kept this good resolve, and at once opened her heart to the judi cious Mrs. Johnson. What sorrows ensued from that withdrawal of confidence from one who was her loving With a firm resolve to disclose all to her grandmother "Really," said Mrs. Johnson, with an air of pique, "I think my son-in-law might display more confidence in my prudence, and have less frequently repeated, ‘he hoped I have been faithful to my trust.' I am sure I have left no pains unspared, nothing undone to render you all your father could wish. As to his fears of a country lover, so often expressed, thank Heaven I have re-watched you well in that particular, and can assure him my grandchild has never been allowed to mix in society beneath her, nor would she so lower herself as to accept clandestine attentions from any one, even if it were the President. You and I, Agnes, have nothing with which to reproach ourselves." While Agnes listened a far different expression passed over her face from that which had shaded her grandmother's countenance: visions of all the delights a residence in a gay city might bring, floated through her imagination, brightened the tint on her cheek, and parted her lips with smiles. Mrs. Johnson read on. Agnes sank on the stool at her grandmother's feet, and wept long and bitterly. "What's the matter, Aggy? Are you sorry to part with grandma? Indeed you will find few in the great world to which you are going, who will so faithfully watch over and guard you from evil. If your poor mother were alive, I should have no fears—but how can I trust my gentle, delicate Aggy with so cold and stern a guardian. Ah, he never consulted the wishes of those around him, but was always as lofty and lordly as if king of the land—and all because his father was descen "My daughter is now seventeen, and it is time she should be settled for life. As a careful father, I have already been looking around among my young acquaintances with a view to selecting her a proper partner. I flatter myself the daughter of Colonel Gordon will find no lack of suitors to crowd her boudoir, from which her father may make a choice—and he must be a man of wealth and station who can win from me my pretty Agnes. Sometimes I feel sorry that I have permitted her to remain so long in the country, fearful some||ded from some Scottish lord. But I should not say any clownish village beau might have caught her young fancy, and lead her to torment me with boarding-school airs of hearts and affections; which, however, you know me too well to imagine will alter any one of my plans." Agnes heard no more, but springing from her stool she threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in the cushions, as if to shut out from her soul those hateful words. Mrs. Johnson read on unconscious of the movement, while Agnes, with burning brain and bursting heart, was endeavoring to still the tumult, which the remembrance of a stern father and her own recently pledged vows excited. "Oh! how shall I ever dare to tell him all?" she exclaimed-for her young heart had gone beyond her power, and to a lowly country youth. She had pledged thing about your father, child-if you do his bidding he will be kind to you, and when you are married and in your own house, I will visit you, and we will be happy together yet." "Happy! ah, never again, grandma." A silence ensued. Mrs. Johnson remained lost in thought, and as she smoothed the glossy hair over the brow of her grandchild, breathed many a prayer for the happiness of her darling. And Agnes-where was the openness she had vowed where the history of her heart, she had resolved to lay before her grandmother. Alas! she possessed not that moral courage which would have led her to reveal all, and save herself from a load of woe. How could she disturb the peace of one so kind to her-how tell her grandmother her care had been all in vain—that her father's fears had a sure foundation, and he would be justified with reproaching her with sleeping at her post. No; she could not-she would conceal all in her own bosom, although, like the Spartan boy's spoil, it should eat her heart out. Perhaps a time might come, when Frederic could openly claim her, and until then, silence would be the most proper course. With these reasons, thus putting off until a future day what ought to have been to-day, Agnes composed her spirits and arose more calm. sage At the end of the street in which Mrs. Johnson resi "Well, dad, you have some wit-I like your plan ded, was a long low wooded tavern, from which projec-amazingly; but how is it to be done? In this village ted a swinging sign, bearing the head of General Jack-no one would perform the ceremony." son. A handsome light wagon drove to the door, from which sprang a fine looking, and well dressed young man. He ascended to the piazza, and giving his rich Spanish cloak to the waiter, he turned to the end of the piazza and gazed long and anxiously up the street. His face and figure were fine, but to a close observer, there was a wild, passionate expression, a recklessness occasionally passed over his features, which would render him shunned by the wise and good. A large, vulgar looking man came to the door. "Run off with her, you stupid owl. Take her to Princeton, or some other near town, and marry her privately; and then, dressed up in your best becomes, drive to New-York and hand her into the presence of your august father-in-law. Hang the ruffle-shirt, how blue he will look when he finds the daughter of the illustrious house of Gordon, married to the son of Bob Wilson, the tavern-keeper. Ho! ho! how I do like to bring down the pride of them Aristocrats." Frederic agreed to follow his father's advice, and af "Fred," he said, "you have come at last. I have ter settling his father's share of Colonel Gordon's mosomething to tell you. Come in the bar-room." "Well, sir, what do you wish ?" ney, which the sanguine youth imagined he should soon handle, he sallied out in quest of Agnes. Happy would "Shut the door, boy. I have news for you, and have it have been for Agnes if she had possessed a share of been impatiently expecting you to tell you. There was her father's firm and resolute spirit; but, timid and a letter in my Post-office here to-day for Mrs. Johnson, yielding, and taking no counsel except of her own heart, which, by the usual process, I took the liberty of open- she fell a ready prey to these lawless men. A note ing, and discovered that Col. Gordon will be here soon, from Wilson was placed in her hand by Ellen, the waitand will carry off with him, the pretty piece of flesh,||ingmaid, urging her to meet him at their usual trystingyou are sighing after. So, if you mean to nab the hei- || place-a lone walk on the banks of the Raritan. ress you must be quick, I can tell you." "Ha! that accounts for her extraordinary absence from our place of meeting. She has not left the house to-day. Can she resolve to forsake me!" "In this epistle were sundry sage fatherly fears of vulgar country beaux, which would have done your heart good to read." "Indeed!" said young Wilson, with a sneer. "I think myself an equal with Col. Gordon, in every thing except money-and as he is rather over-stocked, I will ease him of a part of it when I have taken possession of his heiress." "Alas, I ought not to go," she said to herself, while the tears fell from her pretty eyes on the note in her hand. But he will think me so cruel to go away without bidding him adieu, and I cannot bear to give him pain. Ah, Frederic, I fear I can never be yours, and it is best we should never meet again." With this resolve Agnes sat down to write an adieu. She scribbled the paper over-tore it up—scribbled and mused sometime. At last she sprang up, and seized her hat-"I will not be so unkind-so heartless. I will see him once more, to bid him adicu until happier times." She stole out of the garden, and was soon at the river side, and in her lover's arms. Once with Frederic, his "Had you behaved yourself," growled his father, "when your uncle took you as his clerk, you might have been a rich man ere now. But what are your plans-influence was so great over her yielding spirit, that she you have dilly dallied long enough, I cannot afford to be dressing you up and supporting you for nothing. How far have you proceeded?" left him not until she was his bride. Alas, sweet Agnes, wouldst thou hadst met some happier fate. Wilson could not persuade Agnes to elope with him. To leave “I have secured her heart, and she has promised me her grandmother's house, to fly from her father, seemed her hand." "Pshaw! boy-a foundation of sand. The heart of a girl of seventeen! I would not give a glass of grog for it. She will pledge it twenty times before she marries; and her word, forsooth-truly, if your fortunes have no securer foundation than the faith of a woman, you must expect the rain to descend, the floods to come, and the winds to blow upon you, and you will fall, and great so terrible, that all his power was unable to obtain her consent to this step. There was a poor young clergy man staying at Wilson's tavern, who was travelling for the purpose of collecting funds to build a church in some town" out west," and for the promise of some rich subscribers and a sum of money in hand, he so far forgot his christian character, as to consent to link, privately this young and tender maiden to the bold and criminal Wilson. May the sins and sorrows which followed, be "I declare here comes that tiresome Widow Chat," visited on his head alone. said Mrs. Johnson the next morning while standing at the window. Colonel Gordon's arrival did not take place until three weeks after his letter. Each day that passed over her saw Agnes trembling with dread, lest the morrow should bring her stern father. All then must be disclosed, as Wilson had declared it to be his intention to reveal his marriage immediately. At last, one morning, the stagecoach was seen turning down the lane towards their house, and while Mrs. Johnson was bustling about to receive her son-in-law, Agnes fled to the sanctuary of her room in the hope of stilling her throbbing veins and obtaining sufficient composure to meet her father's eyes. It was three years since Agnes had seen him, and a few short months ago, she had looked forward to his coming with unmixed joy, now, she shrank from entering his presence. She who had shown herself so reckless of his wishes, who had practiced so much deception towards her kind grandmother!—Oh, how bitterly she repented the step she had taken! The last three weeks had wrought a change in the feelings of Agnes. Her fancy, and it was nothing deeper, which she cherished for: young Wilson, was fast wearing away. The life of deception she was obliged to lead, weighed so heavily upon her heart, that, the summons to meet her husband always produced painful emotions. Secure of the heiress, Wilson threw off all restraint, and the insight she thus obtained into the reckless spirit, and unrefined sentiments of her unprincipled husband, had often made her shudder for the consequences of this rash marriage. Alas poor Agnes, "three weeks after marriage," she almost repented the step. “Oh, that I had confided in my dear grandma and all would have been well," exclaimed the trembling girl "How can I face my father when I know Wilson will be here soon and all will be disclosed." In tearless despair Agnes leaned her head on her hand, and listened with a sinking heart to the rumbling stage coach which was bringing her dread father nearer every moment. A knock at the door sat all her pulses beating, but the sight of Ellen relieved her, who giving her a note left the room.-It was from Wilson and with a trembling heart she read as follows: Dear Aggy,---Some very particular business calls me away from the village just now, much to my annoyance. I trust to return soon and present my wife to my august father-in-law. In the meantime grab all the cash you can as I shall want every cent you can raise ere long for a certain purpose. What a load was taken from the heart of Agnes, the luckless bride. He was gone-the dreadful disclosure was deferred for a time, and, with a countenance lighted with joy, she ran down stairs and flew into her father's arms as he entered the hall. Col. Gordon was equally delighted and surprised at this affectionate reception, for he had felt misgivings that three years absence from his daughter would efface him from her heart. Pressing her to him, he called her his good and beautiful Agnes, and thanked Mrs. Johnson who now approached, with an ardor unusual to him, for the improvement he observed in his daughter, all owing to her careful teaching. The rest of the day was passed by the father and daughter with heartfelt enjoyment. "How are you dear, Mrs. Johnson-I hope this damp weather does not bring on your rheumatics. Good morning, Miss Agnes." "Good morning, Mrs. Chat. Col. Gordon, my son-inlaw-Mrs. Chat our neighbor." Miss Agnes' father, I suppose," said Mrs. Chat. "You ought to be a proud father, sir-very few can boast of so pretty and so good a daughter." Col. Gordon bowed and smiled while Agnes held up her little white hand pretending to conceal the blushes her praises brought forth. "I suppose we shall loose Miss Gordon now, "said Mrs. Chat, "she is too pretty a flower to bloom unseen in this Jersey wilderness.” 'Yes, I intend to take her with me to New-York soon." "You will find it something of a task to have the charge of a giddy young girl-hey, Miss Agnes? You ought to marry. Col. she is too young to enter the great world without a mother-or, perhaps you mean to marry her out off your hand, but do, let me beg of you not to let her choose a soldier." "My daughter I presume will permit me to choose for her," said Col. Gordon, with the tone of one who expected always to be commanding office in his family, "but what are your objections to us poor devils of soldiers, madam-" "Oh, you are always moving about, now here, now off to Missouri or Alabama, and either leave your families behind to grieve, or drag them up hill and down after you see, the very idea troubles Agnes, she is as white as a sheet." Col. Gordon glanced inquiringly, and Mrs. Johnson anxiously at their cherished child, which increasing her emotion, a deep flush rushed to her cheek and restored her bloom. Fortunately Mrs. Chat started upon a new subject and thus relieved Agnes from their observation of the too evident agitation the remarks on her marriage produced. "What do you think I heard this morning, Mrs. John son?" "Indeed I cannot guess, Mrs. Chat." "Frederic Wilson, the tavern keeper's wild son has been taken off to Princeton jail, on a charge of Forgery!" "I expected he would come to some such end. Oh, Agnes!-she is falling!-Catch her Col. Gordon!”— and Mrs. Johnson ran across the room, but her father received the insensible girl and laid her upon the sofa. |