FALLS OF THE YANTIC,
AT NORWICH, CONNECTICUT.
Hills, rocks and waters! here ye lie,
And o'er ye spreads the same blue sky,
As when in early days,
My childish feet your cliffs essayed,
My wondering eye your depths surveyed,
Where the vexed torrent stays.
O'er bolder scenes mine age hath strayed,
By floods that make your light cascade
Seem as an infant's play,
Yet dearer is it still to me.
Than all their boasted pageantry
That charms the traveller's way.
For here, enchanted, side by side,
With me, would many a play-mate glide
When school-day's task was o'er,
Who deemed this world, from zone to zone,
Had nought of power or wonder known
Like this resounding shore.
Light-hearted group! I see ye still,
For Memory's pencil, at her will,
Doth tint ye bright, and rare,
Red lips, from whence glad laughter rang,
Elastic limbs that tireless sprang,
And curls of sunny hair.
I will not ask, if change or care
Have coldly marred those features fair,
For by myself, I know,
We cannot till life's evening keep
The flowers that on its dewy steep,
At earliest dawn did blow.
Yet lingering round this hallowed spot,
I call them, though they answer not,
For some have gone their way,
To sleep that sleep which none may break,
Until the resurrection wake
The prisoners from their clay.
But thou, most fair and fitful stream,
First prompter of my musing dream,
Still lovingly dost smile,
And heedless of the conflict hoarse
With the rude rocks that bar thy course,
My lonely walk beguile.
Still thou art changed, my favorite scene!
For man hath stolen thy cliffs between,
And torn thy grassy sod,
And bade the intrusive mill-wheel dash,
And many a ponderous engine crash,
Where Nature dreamed of God.
Yet to the spot, where first we drew
Our breath, we turn unchanged and true,
As to a nurse's breast;
And count it, even till hoary age
The Mecca of our pilgrimage,
Of all the earth most blest.
And so, thou Cataract, strangely wild,
My own loved Yantic's wayward child,
That still dost foam and start;
Though slight thou art, I love thee well,
And pleased the lay thy praise doth tell,
Which gushes from the heart.
Norwich, the semi-capital of the County of New London, is one of the most picturesque towns in New England. It has been said by travellers to exhibit strong features of resemblance to the scenery of Scotland. It is situated between three rivers, the Yantic, Shetucket, and Quinneboug, all of them wild and rapid, having their sources in a mountainous country, and uniting to form the Thames. The Yantic derives its principal origin from Gardener's Lake, a fine sheet of water, washing the borders of Bozrah, Montville, and Colchester. Issuing from this lake, and enlarged by a tributary stream from Lebanon, it pursues a winding course to the south-east, affording valuable facilities for mills and manufactories, till it arrives within a mile of its junction with the Shetucket. Then suddenly arrested by a disordered mass of primitive rocks, it is precipitated over a parapet ten or twelve feet high upon another bed of rocks below. There the channel is contracted to a narrow space, and rendered tortuous and dark, by two frowning cliffs, upon either side, one of which, like a perpendicular wall, towers to the height of a hundred feet. Through this chasm, rushes the broken stream. The beetling cliffs, the compressed channel, the confused mass of granite, and the roaring, foaming river, as it struggles through its difficulties into the broad placid basin below, are all striking features of this scene. The surrounding landscape also, is diversified and impressive. It is overlooked on all sides by high hills, and heavy woods. The river has plunged into a dell between high banks, which, as it pursues its way, gradually subside into green and cultivated slopes, upon whose breast many a graceful mansion arises to give a cheerful interest to the region. At the distance of a mile, you see the bridge which spans its mouth, and groups of buildings, forming a part of the contiguous city.
In the immediate vicinity of the Falls, several large manufacturing establishments, and a thriving village have sprung up. Much of the water has been diverted from the main stream for their utilitarian purposes. This greatly detracts from the beauty of the place, which in its original state was strikingly bold and romantic. The good taste of the proprietors has endeavored to prevent any material change in the natural features of the scenery, and it is still a beautiful and interesting spot. At the time of the spring floods, the waters fill the whole channel, and for a few days pour through the chasm with great clamor and velocity. And during the dry weather of summer, when the channel is laid bare to view, a new gratification is afforded to the curious visitor, in the various fantastic figures and forms, into which the rocks have been wrought by the attrition of the eddying waters. How long they must have kept up this ceaseless flow, to have wrought the rough granite into such smooth and circular excavations from the depth of a finger, to the capacity of a cauldron, it is impossible to say. Those who prefer the wildness of nature to her more luxuriant scenes of cultivation, would be gratified with the pictures of Yantic Falls, painted many years since, by the venerable artist. Col. Trumbull, and now in the possession of G. J. W. Trumbull, Esq. of Norwich.
Tradition has added another point of interest to this spot, by associating it with the history of Indian warfare. In one of the sanguinary conflicts which frequently took place between the Narragansetts and Mohegans, the former, having been routed by their enemies, in a battle upon the plains three or four miles below, were driven through the woods with great fury, towards the spot where Norwich now stands. A band of them, still fiercely pursued, reached the verge of the dizzy cliff that overlooks the Falls, and to escape the barbarity of their foes, plunged into the foaming torrent, and were dashed in pieces upon the rocks.
But the principal part of the Narragansett warriors, gaining the fording place, were driven by their enemies over hills, vales, and morasses, to a spot called "Sachem's Plain." There a furious contest ensued, which ended in the overthrow, and death of Miantonimoh. Uncas, the kingly victor, and the constant friend of white men, reposes near the Falls of the Yantic. A small granite monument has been recently erected over his grave. This burial-ground, in which none but those of the royal blood of Mohegan were allowed interment, was formerly one of the favorite walks of the children in the vicinity. Seated there, as we returned from school at the close of a summer-day, loaded with our books, and sometimes with the baskets which had contained our noon-repast, we read the simple inscriptions on the rude grave-stones, and listened to the moan of the cataract, as it stole, softened by distance, to that solitary and not uncongenial recess.
One of these epitaphs used especially to attract our attention. It was composed at the request of the Indians, by Dr. Tracy, a highly respected physician, whose philanthropy was often called into exercise, for the red-browed race.
"Here lies Samuel Uncas, the second and beloved son of his father, John Uncas, who was the grandson of Uncas, Grand Sachem. He died July 3 1st, 1741 , in the 28th year of his age.
For beauty, wit, and sterling sense,
For temper mild, and eloquence,
For courage bold, and things waureegan,
He was the glory of Mohegan,
Whose death hath caused great lamentation,
Both to the English and the Indian nation."
The term "waureegan," in the language of our Indian neighbors, signifies "good things," or praiseworthy conduct. Some writers have translated it as "good tidings," or costly apparel; but this is not conformable to the usage of the Mohegans. Over another mossy stone, the little critics sometimes paused, thinking that the close of its inscription possessed wonderful force and simplicity.
"In memory of young Seasar Jonus, who died April 30th, 1749, in the 28th year of his age. And he was cousin to Uncas."
The latest interment in this royal cemetery, was that of Mazeen, about twenty years since, the last man in whose veins flowed the royal blood of Mohegan. He was in the 28th year of his age, and deeply mourned by his people. That tribe, in all conveyances of land to the white people, strenuously reserved this sacred sepulchral ground.
Whether it is still a favorite resort with the young, I know not. But to enumerate the spots in the neighborhood of Norwich, where the lover of nature might delight to ruminate, would be difficult. Equally so would it be, to do justice to the social virtues that predominate there, and to the hospitality and cordial feeling which naturalize the stranger, and unlock the springs of sympathy. Memory lingers around every nook and dell, of "mine own romantic town," repeopling it with the loved and lost. Scarce a rocky ravine, but hath its legend of some musing hour, or of some cherished friend, in whose company it was visited.
Yet how vain to attempt a description of the haunts which in childhood we frequented. Those which we were in the habit of visiting, after the confinement of a long day in school, are clothed with an illusive beauty, which neither time, nor truth, can perfectly dispel. Hence this variable, and diminutive cataract of my native place, was ever in the days of childish simplicity, as the Fall of Terni:—
"The roar of waters,—from the head-long height
Cleaving the wave-worn precipice."
One of the peculiar features of the scene in those days, was its entire seclusion. Tall and beautiful trees, mingled among precipitous rocks, were covered, from their roots, high above the intersection of their branches, with carved names, lover's knots, and various devices. But they have fallen, those overshadowing trees, which were to us, as the oak of Delphos. Utilitarian zeal touched them, and they perished. The same magic and ministry, have converted the dreaming-place of the lone enthusiast into a busy manufacturing village, with its fitting appendages.
Still it is not as historians, as geographers or geologists, that we return to the clime of our nativity. We bring no plummet to sound its streams, no instrument for the admeasurement of its mountains. We saw, and formed our opinion of them, when opening life was a romance, when judgment had not known the discipline of contrast, or comparison, and when there was no experience. Then, every brooklet was to us as the Rhine, every violet-bank a Lausanne, every wooded hillock an Appenine.
Even after the lapse of many years, when we estimate other landscapes accurately, we continue to judge of these, by their associations. We revisit them, and though we are ourselves changed, though the voices that used to welcome us, are silent forever, yet the cliff, and the rivulet are still there, to soothe us with a perpetual friendship. We inhale from them the same fresh spirit that breathed there when life was new, and uplifted by its influence, exultingly confute the position of the philosopher, that "there is ever some dead fly in our box, marring the precious ointment."