Scenes in my Native Land/Passage up the Connecticut
PASSAGE UP THE CONNECTICUT,
FROM HARTFORD TO SPRINGFIELD.
The summer-morn doth greet thee cheerily,
Stream of my fathers. From the shaded dell
Where in thy Highland cradle thou didst take
The little water-cup so thankfully,
From every nursing rill, on to the scene
Of thy rejoicing bridal with the Sea,
Where snowy sails from many a region, bear
The nuptial dowry, thou hast held thy way,
A comforter, and blessing.
Full and fair
Thou scatterest bounties o'er thy verdant banks,
As though thou ne'er hadst known a time of need,
Or penury. Yet I remember well
When last I saw thee in adversity.
Winter had chained thee long, and tardy Spring
Shrank, as she whispering warned thy mighty heart
To wake and free itself. No trampled realm
Came to its battle-hour, more valiantly.
Thy prison doors were broken, at the rush
And hollow murmur from thy troubled depths;
As fettered Samson, with his shaven locks
Crumbled the temple columns and o'erthrew
Philistia's mocking lords.
Block after block
Of thick-ribb'd ice, disparted, and the shores
Piled high with rugged masses, told how strong
Thy struggle with the tyrant. Still in pain.
And wearily, thou wrought'st thy toilsome way,
Like one who hath a heavy work to do,
Ere he may take his rest.
I scarce can think
Thou art the same, that now at liberty
And in the fulness of thy wealth dost mark
Thy course with benefactions.
As we press
Upward, thy current, with its azure tint,
Mottled by silver clouds, and fringed with green,
In ripples, and in shadows multiform
Flows on in beauty. Now and then a raft
Of timber strongly bound, the sturdy growth,
Of our far northern hills, comes drifting down,
Shaping its lonely voyage; or the boat
That scorneth sail and oar, with flying wheel
Furroweth thy startled flood.
The bending trees
Adjust their branches, by thy mirrored tide,
As won our Mother from the crystal eye
Of Eden's lake, the knowledge of her charms.
A blight is on the sycamores! Yon grove
That erst in healthful majesty aspired,
Surceaseth from good works, and stretcheth out
Unsightly, withered arms. From dripping rocks
Cool, trickling waters bathe the moss-clad roots,
The healing sunbeams woo them, the fond vine
Creeps up, and clasps them in her clustering arms,
Teaching them how to love, while at their feet
The glowing Kalmia opes its waxen breast,
As if in sympathy. But all in vain.
Death worketh at their heart, and mid the embrace
Of loving Nature, sullenly they stand
A bare and blackened wreck.
How sweet to glide
Along these winding shores, so richly green,
Where mid his corn-clad fields the farmer toils,
And village after village lifts its spire
In freedom, and in plenty.
Now we reach
The "Old Bay State," the mother of us all
Who in New England boast to have our birth,
And look through storms of revolution, back
To Plymouth Rock.
Fair heritage she hath
From mountain fastness, on to Ocean-shore,
And groweth beautiful with age, and strong
In her sons' strength.
God bless her, and the realms
That cluster round her border, and the streams
That through her bosom flow, and most of all
Thee, glorious River, o'er whose breast we sail,
This summer's day, and tune our idle song.
Springfield is among the most beautiful towns in Massachusetts, full of activity and prosperity. It has many elegant private residences, and the depth of its summer-shades, and the grace of its lofty elms, the glory of New England, add much to its attractions. Court Square, and the promenade in Chestnut Street, are resorts usually admired by visitants.
It has a cemetery recently commenced, which evinces that good taste and reverent attention to the homes of the dead, which mark the progress of refinement in a Christian community. The young foliage waves gracefully, and the falling fountains with their crystal waters make a pleasant murmur around the beds of unbroken repose.
In the ancient burying ground among many interesting inscriptions, is one, which seemed to us singularly expressive of attachment to a spiritual guide.
"In memory of the late Rev. Robert Brack, late pastor of the church of Christ, in this place, who died on the 23d of April, 1781, in the 71st year of his age, and the 49th of his ministry. This monument is erected by his affectionate and grateful parishioners, in addition to that in their own breasts, to perpetuate the remembrance of his singular worth, and long continued labors among them, in the service of their souls.
He taught us how to live, and ah! too high
A price for knowledge, taught us how to die."
The little voyage from Hartford to Springfield is sufficiently variegated to be agreeable. The steamers employed on this part of the river are exceedingly small, in order that their light draught of water may enable them to descend a succession of rapids. The ascending passage is performed by the agency of a canal and locks, and of course requires more time, so that the twenty-six miles, which divide the two cities, occupy four hours. It was, however, rendered comparatively short, by the fair scenery of the shores, lighted up by a bright morning sun.
Among the exuberant verdure and fertility, which summer diffuses over this region, we passed one or two melancholy copses of blighted sycamores. This fine tree, in many parts of our country, seems to have been smitten by a fatal epidemic. This sad exhibition of mortality among the trees, reminded me of the following powerful and eloquent description from a traveller, in the far west, of a dead forest in the Oregon Territory.
"We had reached a current of bright, mountain water, winding through a deep, narrow, grassy valley, that cleaves the granite hills of Oregon. The morning was bitterly cold, though the 24th of August, and a pelting rain came down upon us, from the dark and comfortless sky. About midnight, we found it necessary to mount the ridge, and, with great labor, at length reached the summit. A scene here opened such as we had never before conceived, and which perhaps, it is quite impossible to convey in description. A thick forest covered the mountain, half the trees standing, half of them prostrate, and every one dead. Not a particle of bark remained among all these ghostlike remnants of a gigantic, but now blasted and extinct vegetation. The huge rocks were swept bare of earth, by the violent winds from which this chain derives its name. Nothing met the eye in any direction, but naked granite and blasted trees. A feeling of intense awe chilled through our veins and crept into our hearts, as we gazed upon a scene that forced upon us a new and vast conception of desolation and sublimity. Tall pines, leafless, barkless and branchless, stood in gaping clefts and fissures pointing their spires towards the stormy sky, like ghostly figures upbraiding their destroyer. Many were pulpy with rottenness, though still standing, upheld by the firm twining of their roots among the rocks. Those that had fallen, seemed as though they had crumbled in their descent, without a crush, so silent was everything, except the fierce winds, to which the white spectres appeared to be listening in desolate grandeur."
The beauty of the Connecticut River, as an inland stream, and as you journey along its banks, upward towards its source, is far greater than where it approaches its confluence with the sea. It glides in the gentlest, most patronizing manner among green vales, and quiet villages, seeming to enjoy the fertility and happiness which it dispenses.
It may not be compared with its mightier neighbor, the Hudson, in depth or force of current, or majesty of mountain-shores. Yet its own characteristics of beauty satisfy, and are congenial to the people, among whom it flows: and justly may it be said,—
"No peaceful skies o'er fairer vallies shine,
Nor drinks the sea a lovelier wave than thine."