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Narrative of Lieutenant Hall's Journey from Niagara to Philadelphia

Mr. Hall crossed the river from Fort Erie, and proceeded to Buffalo, one of the frontier villages which had been burnt during the great American war. Not a house had been left standing; yet, when Mr. Hall was there, it was not merely a flourishing village, but a considerable town, with good shops and hotels. The celerity with which Buffalo had risen from its ashes, indicates the juvenile spirit of life and increase, which so eminently distinguishes the American population.

As Mr. Hall proceeded on his journey, he found the country thickly settled, but dull and uniform in feature; being an entire flat. The autumn had been dry, and water was, in many places, extremely scarce. This is an evil not uncommon in newly-settled districts. Draining follows clearing; the creeks, no longer fed by the swamps, disencumbered also of fallen trunks of trees, and other substances, by which their waters were, in a great degree, stayed, easily run dry in summer, and soon fail altogether.

The principal inn at Batavia is large, and yet constructed upon an economical principle; for one roof covers hotel, prison, court-house, and assembly-room. The inhabitants were, at this time, building, by subscription, an episcopal church, the cost of which was to be twenty thousand dollars.

Caledonia is a small, but flourishing village, which has a handsome inn, with very comfortable accommodations; and, close to the road, is a large sheet of water, from which a clear and rapid stream descends, through a pleasing valley, into Allen's Creek, before the latter unites with the Genesee River. The banks of this creek are adorned with natural groves and copses, in which Mr. Hall observed the candleberry myrtle in great abundance: but a more interesting sight was afforded by numerous organic remains, with which the blocks of limestone, scattered through the low ground around it, are encrusted, as if with rude sculpture. These blocks are mixed with nodules of granite, and present innumerable forms, both of shells and aquatic plants. This district had been settled fifteen years; and, when Mr. Hall was here, cleared land was worth fifty dollars, and uncleared land about fifteen dollars per acre. At Avon Mr. Hall quitted the main road, and followed the right bank of the Genesee. The scenery, in the vicinity of this place, began to improve, but the roads were proportionally deteriorated. Wild even to savageness, mountain heights branched thickly across the country, with no seeming order or direction. The only level ground was in the narrow valleys, along the course of the streams.

The woods in the vicinity of the Genesee abound in large black squirrels, some of which are as big as a small cat. They are destructive to grain, and are, therefore, keenly pursued by sportsmen, who frequently make parties to kill them, and who destroy several thousands at one chase: their flesh is considered a great delicacy. These animals migrate, at different seasons; and have the credit of ingeniously ferrying themselves over rivers, by using a piece of bark for a raft, and their tails for sails.

Bath is embosomed in wild mountains. The principal houses are constructed round the three sides of a square, or green; and, as most of them were at this time new, white, and tastefully finished, they had a lively appearance, and were agreeably contrasted with the dark adjacent mountain scenery.

The road from Bath to Painted Post, though stony, is tolerably level. The adjacent mountains have a slaty appearance, with horizontal strata. Mr. Hall was disappointed at Painted Post, to find the post gone, broken down or rotted, within the last few years. It had been an Indian memorial, either of triumph or death, or of both.

When he was at Ancaster, this gentleman had been shown the grave of an Indian, among the woods, near the head of the stream: it was covered with boards, and a pole was erected at each end, on which a kind of dance was rudely painted with vermilion. The relatives of the deceased brought offerings to it daily, during their stay in the neighbourhood.

After passing through some other villages, Mr. Hall reached the banks of the Susquehanna: these have no great variety of scenery, though they frequently present grand features. The space betwixt the mountains and the river is often so narrow, that it barely suffices for one carriage to pass; and, in many places, the road, for a mile or two, seems to have been hewn from the rock. Near the creeks there is tolerable land, and two or three pleasant villages. The face of the landscape is no where naked: mountain and vale are alike clothed with pine and dwarf oak-trees; the swamp lands are covered with hemlock-trees, and the bottoms of the woods with rhododendrons.

Wilksbarre is a neat town, regularly laid out, on the left bank of the Susquehanna. Its locality is determined by the direction of one of the Alleghany ridges, which recedes from the course of the river, a few miles above the town, and, curving south-west, encloses a semicircular plot of land, towards the centre of which the town is built. Its neighbourhood abounds in coal. The pits are about a mile distant. They lie under a stratum of soft clay slate, which contains impressions of ferns, oak-leaves, and other vegetables, usually found in such situations. The town itself, in consequence of the frequent separation of its streets and houses, by grass-fields and gardens, has a quiet and rural aspect. It contains a neat church, appropriated to the alternate use of episcopalians and presbyterians. Wilkesbarre is built on the site of Wyoming: a small mound, near the river, is pointed out, as that on which the fort stood; and the incursion of the Indians, when most of the inhabitants fell, in an unsuccessful battle, is still remembered. Some few escaped, by swimming across the stream, and fled, naked, through the woods, for several days, till they reached the nearest settlement; and this is all the record that exists of Albert and Gertrude, the foundation of Campbell's poem of Gertrude of Wyoming.

At Wilkesbarre the road quits the Susquehanna, and, ascending a ridge of the Alleghany Mountains, crosses through deep forests and hemlock swamps, sparingly interspersed with settlements. The Pokono Mountain, over which Mr. Hall passed, is famous with the sportsmen and epicures of Philadelphia, for its grouse. Mr. Hall crossed the Blue Ridge, at the stupendous fissure of the Wind Gap, where the mountain seems forcibly broken through, and is strewed with the ruin of rocks. There is a similar aperture, some miles north-east, called the Water Gap. This affords a passage to the Delaware; and all the principal rivers of the states, that rise in the Alleghanys, pass through similar apertures.

Betwixt the Blue Ridge and the Lehigh River, are two Moravian settlements, called Bethlehem and Nazareth. [The inhabitants of the former constitute a large society, and occupy several farms. They have a spacious apartment, in which they all daily assemble, for the purpose of public worship. The single men and women have each a separate dwelling. The women are occupied in various domestic employments; in fancy and ornamental works; and, occasionally, in musical practice, under the direction of a superintendant. The walls of the large hall, where the society dine, are adorned with paintings, chiefly Scripture pieces, executed by members. Various branches of trade and manufacture are carried on, the profits of which go to the general stock; and, from this, all are supplied with the necessaries of life. Their whole time is spent in labour, and in prayer; except an hour in the evening, which is allotted for a concert. Among the Moravians marriage is contracted in a singular manner. If a young man has an inclination to marry, he makes application to the priest, who presents a young woman, designated by the superintendant as the next in rotation for marriage. Having left the parties together for an hour, the priest returns, and, if they consent to live together, they are married the next day; if otherwise, each is put at the bottom of the list, containing perhaps sixty or seventy names; and, on the part of the girl, there is no chance of marriage, unless the same young man should again feel disposed for matrimony. When united, a neat habitation, with a pleasant garden, is provided; and their children, at the age of six years, are placed in the seminary. If either of the parties die, the other returns to the apartment of the single people. In the Moravian establishment at Bethlehem, there is a tavern, with extensive and excellent accommodations.]

Madame de Stael, in describing the Moravians, says, "Their houses and streets are peculiarly neat. The women all dress in the same manner, conceal their hair, and surround their heads with a ribbon, the colour of which indicates whether they are single, married, or widows. The men dress in brown, somewhat like quakers. A mercantile industry occupies nearly the whole community; and all their labours are performed with peculiar regularity and tranquillity." Mr. Hall attended one of the meetings which the inhabitants of Bethlehem commonly hold every evening, for the joint purposes of amusement and devotion. The women were ranged at one end of the room, and the men at the other. Their bishop presided: he was an old man, dressed in the plainest manner, and possessed a countenance singularly mild and placid. He gave out a psalm, and led the choir; and the singing was alternately in German and English.

There is another Moravian settlement about a mile and a half from Nazareth. This, though small, exceeds both the others, in the calm and pensive beauty of its appearance. The houses are built of limestone: they are all on a similar plan, and have their window-frames, doors, and other wood-work, painted fawn-colour: before each house are planted weeping willows, whose luxuriant shade seems to shut out worldly glare, and throws an air of monastic repose over the whole village.

The Lehigh Mountain is the last of the Allegheny Ridges; the country is thenceforth level, fertile, and thickly inhabited, by steady Germans, who wear broad hats, and purple breeches; and whose houses and villages have the antique fashion of Flemish landscape. German is so generally spoken here, that the newspapers and public notices are all printed in that language.

The approach to Philadelphia is announced by a good turnpike road. German Town is a large suburb to the city, and the traveller here feels himself within the precincts of a populous and long-established capital.

A Description of Philadelphia

The first impressions, on entering this city, are decidedly favourable. It possesses a character essentially different from that of New York. It has not so much business, nor so much animation; but there is, in Philadelphia, a freedom from mere display; an evidence of solidity, of which its more commercial rival is nearly destitute.

All the streets are spacious; the names of many of them, as Sassafras, Chesnut, and Locust, record their sylvan origin: rows of Lombardy poplars are planted in them. The private houses are characterized by elegant neatness; the steps and window-sills of many of them are of grey marble, and they have large mats placed before the doors. The streets are carefully swept, as well as the foot-paths, which are paved with brick. The shops do not yield, in display, to those of London. The principal street is one hundred feet wide; and the others vary from eighty to fifty. In the foot-paths a great inconvenience is experienced by the injudicious mode in which cellars are constructed, the openings of which project into the street; and also by the slovenly practice of the store or shopkeepers placing great quantities of loose goods on the outside of their doors.

Philadelphia stands on the bank of the river Delaware; and, in 1795, when Mr. Weld was there, its appearance, as approached from the water, was not very prepossessing. Nothing was visible but confused heaps of wooden store-houses, crowded upon each other, and wharfs, which projected a considerable way into the river. The wharfs were built of wood; they jutted out, in every direction, and were well adapted for the accommodation of shipping; the largest merchant vessels being able to lie close alongside of them. Behind the wharfs, and parallel to the river, runs a street called Water-street. This is the first street which the stranger in America usually enters, after landing; and (says Mr. Weld) it will not give him a very favourable opinion either of the neatness or commodiousness of the public ways of Philadelphia. Such stenches, at times, prevail in it, owing in part to the quantity of filth and dirt that is suffered to remain on the pavement, and in part to what is deposited in waste-houses, of which there are several in the street, that it is really dreadful to pass through it. It was here, in the year 1793, that the malignant yellow fever broke out, which made such terrible ravages among the inhabitants; and, in the summer season, in general, this street is extremely unhealthy.

Few of the public buildings in Philadelphia pretend to great architectural merit. The churches are neat, but plain. The Masonic Hall is an unsightly combination of brick and marble, in the Gothic style. The Philadelphia bank is in a similar style. The United States and Pennsylvania banks are the finest edifices in the city: the first has a handsome portico, with Corinthian columns of white marble, and the latter is a miniature representation of the temple of Minerva at Athens, and is the purest specimen of architecture in the states: the whole building is of marble.

The State House is a plain brick building, which was finished in 1735, at the cost of £.6000. The most interesting recollections of America are attached to this edifice. The Congress sat in it during the greatest part of the war; and the Declaration of Independence was read, from its steps, on the 4th of July, 1776. The Federal Convention also sat in it, in 1787. It is now occupied by the supreme and district courts below, and by Peale's Museum above. This museum, among other articles, contains an immense fossil skeleton of the great Mastodon, or American Mammoth, which, some years ago, was publicly exhibited in London.

The University of Pennsylvania was instituted several years ago, by some of the citizens of Philadelphia; among whom was Dr. Franklin, who drew up the original plan. It is governed by a provost and vice-provost. In 1811, the number of students amounted to five hundred. The lectures commence the first Monday in November, and end on the first day of March. Among others, are professors of anatomy, surgery, midwifery, chemistry, moral philosophy, mathematics, and natural philosophy, belles lettres, and languages.

The Philadelphia prison is a more interesting object to humanity than the most gorgeous palaces. Its exterior is simple, and has rather the air of an hospital than a gaol: a single grated door separates the interior from the street. On entering the court, Mr. Hall found it full of stone-cutters, employed in sawing and preparing large blocks of stone and marble; smiths' forges were at work on one side, and the whole court was surrounded by a gallery and a double tier of work-shops, in which were brush-makers, tailors, shoemakers, weavers, all at their several occupations, labouring, not only to defray, to the public, the expenses of their confinement, but to provide the means of their own honest subsistence for the future. It had none of the usual features of a prison; neither the hardened profligacy which scoffs down its own sense of guilt, nor the hollow-eyed sorrow which wastes away in a living death of unavailing expiation: there was neither the clank of chains, nor the yell of execration; but a hardworking body of men were seen, who, though separated by justice from society, were not supposed to have lost the distinctive attribute of human nature: they were treated as rational beings, were operated upon by rational motives; and they repaid this treatment by improved habits, by industry, and submission. They had been profligate, they were now sober and decent in their behaviour; they had been idle, they were now actively and usefully employed; they had disobeyed the laws, they now submitted (armed as they were with all kinds of utensils) to the government of a single turnkey, and the barrier of a single grating.

The markets of Philadelphia are well supplied; and the price of provisions is considerably lower than in London. No butchers are permitted to slaughter cattle within the city, nor are live cattle permitted to be driven to the city markets.

The inhabitants of this city are estimated at one hundred and twenty thousand, and many of them live in houses which would adorn any city in the world. They have, universally, a pallid and sallow countenance, except the younger females; and many of these, even quakers, adopt the disgusting practice of ornamenting their faces with rouge. In their dress, the gentlemen follow the fashions of England, and the ladies those of France. Mr. Fearon perceived here, what, he says, pervades the whole of the new world, an affectation of splendour, or, what may be called style, in those things that are intended to meet the public eye; with a lamentable want, even of cleanliness, in such matters as are removed from that ordeal. To this may be added an appearance of uncomfortable extravagance, and an ignorance of that kind of order and neatness, which, in the eyes of those who have once enjoyed it, constitute the principal charm of domestic life. The Philadelphians consist of English, Irish, Scotch, Germans, and French; and of American-born citizens, descended from people of those different nations. It is a remark very generally made, not only by foreigners, but also by persons from distant parts of the United States, that they are extremely deficient in hospitality and politeness towards strangers. Among the uppermost circles in Philadelphia, pride, haughtiness, and ostentation, are conspicuous; and, in the manners of the people in general, there is much coldness and reserve.

Philadelphia is the grand residence of the quakers in America, but their number does not now bear the same proportion to that of the other citizens, which it formerly did. This, however, is not occasioned by a diminution of quakers, so much as by the great influx, into the city, of persons of a different persuasion.

In this city funerals are uniformly attended by large walking processions. The newspapers frequently contain advertisements, stating the deaths of individuals, and inviting all friends to attend the burial. The dead are seldom kept more than two days. At the time appointed, intimate friends enter the house; others assemble on the outside, and fall into the procession when the body is brought out.

With regard to the climate of Philadelphia, it is observed that the heats of summer are excessive; and that the cold of winter is equally extreme. During the few days which Mr. Weld spent at Philadelphia, in the month of June, 1795, the heat was almost intolerable. For two or three days the thermometer stood at 93°, and, during these days, no one stirred out of doors who was not compelled to do so. Light white hats were universally worn, and the young men appeared dressed in cotton or linen jackets and trowsers. The window-shutters of the houses were closed early in the mornings, so as to admit no more light than what was absolutely necessary for domestic business. Indeed, many of the houses were kept so dark, that, on going into them from the street, it was impossible, at first entrance, to perceive who was present. The best houses in the city are furnished with Venetian blinds, at the outside, to the windows and hall doors, which are made to fold together like common window-shutters. A very different scene was presented after sunset. Every house was then thrown open, and all the inhabitants crowded into the streets, to take their evening walks, and to visit their acquaintance. This usually lasted till about ten o'clock: at eleven all was quiet; and a person might have passed over half the town without seeing a single human being, except the watchmen. Heavy dews sometimes fall after the sun is down, and the nights are then very cold: at other times there are no dews, and the air continues hot all the night through. At this season of the year meat cannot be kept sweet, even for a single day, except in an icehouse or a remarkably cold cellar. Milk generally turns sour in an hour or two; and fish is never brought to market without being covered with lumps of ice. Poultry, intended for dinner, is never killed till about four hours before it is wanted, and even then it is kept immersed in water.

The carriages used in Philadelphia consist of coaches, chariots, chaises, coachees, and light waggons. The equipages of a few individuals are extremely ostentatious; but there does not appear, in any, that neatness and elegance which might be expected among people who are desirous of imitating the fashions of England, and who are continually procuring models from that country. The coachee is a carriage peculiar to America; the body of it is somewhat longer than that of a coach, but of the same shape. In front it is left quite open, down to the bottom, and the driver sits on a bench under the roof. It has two seats for the passengers, who sit with their faces towards the horses. The roof is supported by small props, which are placed at the corners. On each side of the doors, above the pannels, it is quite open; and, to guard against bad weather, there are curtains, which are made to let down from the roof, and which fasten to buttons, placed for the purpose, on the outside. There is also a leathern curtain, to hang occasionally between the driver and passengers.

The light waggons are on the same construction, but are calculated to accommodate from four to twelve people. The only difference between a small waggon and a coachee, is, that the latter is better finished, has varnished pannels, and doors at the side. The former has no doors; but the passengers scramble in, the best way they can, over the seat of the driver. These waggons are universally used for stage-carriages.

The accommodations at the taverns, in Philadelphia, are very indifferent; as, indeed, with very few exceptions, they are throughout the country. The mode of conducting them is nearly the same every where. The traveller, on his arrival, is shown into a room, which is common to every person in the house, and which is generally the one set apart for breakfast, dinner, and supper. All the strangers that are in the house sit down, to these meals, promiscuously; and, excepting in the large towns, the family of the house also forms a part of the company. It is seldom that a private parlour or drawing-room can be procured at taverns, even in the towns; and it is always with reluctance that breakfast or dinner is served up separately to any individual. If a separate bed-room can be procured, more ought not to be expected; and it is not always that even this is to be had; and persons who travel through the country must often submit to be crammed into rooms where there is scarcely sufficient space to walk between the beds.

The Delaware, on the banks of which this city is built, rises in the state of New York. At Philadelphia it is thirteen hundred and sixty yards wide, and is navigable for vessels of any burden. It is frozen in the winter months; a circumstance which materially affects the commercial interests of Philadelphia, and gives a great advantage to New York. The tide reaches as high as the falls of Trenton, thirty-five miles above Philadelphia, and one hundred and fifty-five miles from the sea. Six or seven steam-boats, of large size, ply on the Delaware, and form a communication with New York, by Trenton and Bordentown; and with Baltimore, by Wilmington and Newcastle. These vessels are all fitted up in an elegant manner.

Over the river Schuylkil, near Philadelphia, there is a singular bridge of iron wire. It is four hundred feet in length, and extends, from the window of a wire factory, to a tree on the opposite shore. The wires which form the curve are six in number; three on each side, and each three-eighths of an inch in diameter. The floor of the bridge is elevated sixteen feet above the water; and the whole weight of the wires is about four thousand seven hundred pounds. It is possible to construct a bridge of this kind in the space of a fortnight; and the whole expense would not exceed three hundred dollars.

About thirty miles north-east of Philadelphia, and betwixt that city and New York, is Trenton, the capital of New Jersey. Mr. Weld visited this place in the year 1796; and he says that it then contained only about eighty dwellings, in one long street. It had a college, which was in considerable repute. The number of students was about seventy; but, from their appearance, and the course of their studies, it more correctly deserved the appellation of a grammar-school, than a college. The library was a miserable one; and, for the most part, contained only old theological books. There were an orrery out of repair, and a few detached parts of philosophical apparatus. At the opposite end of the room were two small cupboards, which were shown as the museum. These contained two small alligators, stuffed, and a few fishes, in a wretched state of preservation.

Not far from Trenton, and on the bank of the Delaware, is the residence of Joseph Buonaparte, who, since the re-establishment of the ancient families on the thrones of Europe, has retired to America. The estate on which he lives he purchased for ten thousand dollars; and he is said to have expended, twenty thousand more in finishing the buildings, and laying out the grounds in a splendid style. At present it has much the appearance of the villa of a country gentleman in England.