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and his patronymic, “the monster Brandt.” Coextensive with the knowledge of the poem is the wrony done to his memory by ascribing to him cruelties in which he had no share, and at the perpetration of which he was not even present; and although to the later editions of his poem Campbell has appended a note, acknowledging his error in this respect, the Thayendanegea of history is still “the monster Brandt” to thousands who derive all their knowledge of him from the deathless “ Gertrude of Wyoming."
A desire to contribute something toward the rescue of the Indian warrior's fame, was prominent among the considerations that led to the production of the present work; while, independently of the interest with which the Valley of Wyoming has been invested by Campbell, it is believed that the actual history of that beautiful region, limited though it be in its geographical dimensions, is sufficiently rich in incident to warrant at least a passing notice from the muse of history. In the preparation of these pages, for the sake of convenience, the popular style of the tourist has occasionally been adopted.
Wyoming is a section of the valley of the Susquehanna river, situated due west of the city of New-York, distant, in a direct line, about one hundred miles. The usual route is across NewJersey to Easton, and the Delaware river, and thence by the Wilkesbarré turnpike, through the " Wind-Gap” of the Blue Mountains, and across the wild and far-famed Pokono. A less direct but more romantic route was chosen by the writer for the purpose of visiting the stupendous scenery of the Delaware “ Water-Gap."
From New-York to Morristown by rail-road, passing through Newark, Orange, Millville and Chatham. The country is agreeably diversified with highland and plain — orchards and cultivated fields — verdant groves crowning the hills, or stretching down their sides to the Passaic river and its tributaries; their superb vegetation running down the dales, where the rich elms and willows bend their branches over the streams and fountains, affording landscape-glimpses of surpassing beauty. On the side of one of these hills, of moderate elevation, sheltered from the northwest, and looking into the valley of the sinuous Passaic, stands the modest country retreat of the Hon. JAMES KENT, formerly Chief Justice, and afterward Chancellor of the State of New-York. The country thence to the base of Schooley's Mountain-anciently called the Muskonetcongrapidly assumes a rougher aspect. The hills of ten aspire to a more respectable size, and with the increasing altitude the farms appear less productive. Still, there are meadows and pastures "full of fresh verdure,” while there is beauty to be descried in many a "winding vale" below. A brisk stream laves the eastern base of the Muskonetcong, flowing to the south, and affording abundant water-power for mills and manufactories. The ascent of the mountain is by a winding road sufficiently steep to remind one of Beattie's pathetic exclamation:
“How hard it is to climb !"
and affording a broad and beautifully variegated landscape, as the traveller occasionally stops to breathe and look behind. The height of the mountain is probably eight hundred or a thousand feet — not above the level of the sea, but from the steppe on which it stands. At the point where it is crossed by the turnpike, the top of the mountain presents the surface of a plain, of perhaps a mile and a half in breadth. It is sufficiently rocky to require strength and patience in its cultivation, and in its primitive condition its aspect must have been most forbidding. Nevertheless the energies of man have triumphed over its original sterility, and worse looking farms may often be seen in a less rugged country.
This elevated spot has enjoyed some celebrity for more than half a century, as a watering-place, from the circumstance that a mineral spring flows from its rocks, the waters of which are esteemed excellent for bathing. There are two public houses, of ancient and respectable aspect, for the accommodation of boarders — those who desire to apply the waters of the fountain, and those who visit this place for the benefit of the elastic and invigorating mountain air. The first of the two large houses approached from the east, is Belmont Hall, generally patronised by the New-Yorkers. The house is embosomed in a noble grove of oaks affording a broad and grateful shade. The other hotel is called the Heath House. It stands upon a delightful site, and also, like its rival, wears an aspect of patrician comfort. This house is the favourite resort of the Philadelphians. From both, and indeed from the whole mountain table, the prospect, on every hand, but especially toward the west, affords a broad and magnificent pictureextending over many a deep green valley and laughing hill, even to the Blue Mountains beyond the Delaware.
The spring gushes from a rock — or rather oozes, for it has not power to gush — in a wild glen three-quarters of a mile below, toward the west. It is a lonely, romantic place, and a small bathing-house shelters the spring. The waters are slightly tinctured with iron, and are sufficiently insipid to the taste of those who have just been quaffing from the sparkling fountains of Saratoga.
The descent is along the ravine already mentioned, which is deep and shadowy, and at times, as wild as nature can make it. Emerging from the glen, the charming valley of the Muskonetcong river welcomes the traveller with a scene of placid beauty. Here, crossing the stream, the route that had been chosen diverges toward the north, through the pleasant village of Hackettstown. This section of New-Jersey is not only beautiful to the eye, but evidently fertile. As the tourist leaves the valley, climbing another range of hills, overlooking other magnificent pictures, and again descending to the bed of another clear mountain stream, the varying prospects, the free air and the bright sun, with here and there a flitting mass of cloud darkening for a moment a wood-girt hill, afford a succession of objects for delighted contemplation.
In ascending from one of these valleys, between Hackettstown and Vienna, the road crosses the Morris Canal, leading from Easton to Jersey City, opposite to New-York. It is an important work for New-York, opening, as it does, a direct passage by water to the coal mines of the Lehigh in Pennsylvania.
At the distance of some eight or ten miles from the valley of the Muskonetcong, after crossing the Pequest river, and ascending a hill which aspires to the character of a mountain, a landscape opens to the north, of singular grandeur and magnificence. The Delaware Water-Gap must be more than twenty miles distant, yet the eye, overlooking many a beautiful hill and romantic valley in the foreground, at once catches the bold outline of the cleft mountains in the distance, strongly relieved against the hoary crests of the mountains yet more remote. On the left, from the same elevation, as the eye stretches over the hills beyond the Delaware, the noble range of the Blue Mountains rises in glorious prospect.