Lydia H. Sigourney. Scenes in My Native Land. Boston: James Munroe & Co., 1844.
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[p. 3]
NIAGARA.
Up to the Table-Rock, where the great flood
Reveals its fullest glory. To the verge
Of its appalling battlement draw near,
And gaze below. Or if thy spirit fail,
Creep stealthily, and snatch a trembling glance
Into the dread abyss.
What there thou see'st
Shall dwell forever in thy secret soul,
Finding no form of language.
The vexed deep,
Which from the hour that Chaos heard the voice
"Let there be light," hath known nor pause, nor rest,
Communeth through its misty cloud with Him
Who breaks it on the wheel of pitiless rock,
Yet heals it every moment. Bending near,
Mid all the terror, as an angel-friend,
The rainbow walketh in its company
With perfect orb full-rounded. Dost thou cling
Thus to its breast, a Comforter, to give
Strength in its agony, thou radiant form,
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p. 4 | NIAGARA. |
Born of the trembling tear-drop, and the smile
Of sun, or glimmering moon?
Yet from a scene
So awfully sublime, our senses shrink,
And fain would shield them at the solemn base
Of the tremendous precipice, and glean
Such hallowed thoughts as blossom in its shade.
----
This is thy building, Architect Divine!
Who heav'dst the pillars of the Universe.
Up, without noise, the mighty fabric rose,
And to the clamor of the unresting gulf
Forever smiting on its ear of rock
With an eternal question, answereth nought.
Man calls his vassals forth, with toil and pain;
Stone piled on stone, the pyramid ascends,
Yet ere it reach its apex-point, he dies,
Nor leaves a chiseled name upon his tomb.
The vast cathedral grows, with deep-groined arch,
And massy dome, slow reared, while race on race
Fall like the ivy sere, that climbs its walls,
The imperial palace towers, the triumph arch,
And the tall fane that tells a hero's praise
Uplift their crowns of fret-work haughtily.
But lo! the Goth doth waste them, and his herds
The Vandal pastures mid their fallen pride.
But thou, from age to age, unchanged hast stood,
Even like an altar to Jehovah's name,
Silent, and steadfast, and immutable.
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p. 5 | NIAGARA. |
Niagara and the storm-cloud!
To the peal
Of their united thunder, rugged rocks
Amazed reverberate, through depths profound
Streams the red lightning, while the loftiest trees
Bow, and are troubled. Shuddering earth doth hide
In midnight's veil; and even the ethereal mind,
Which hath the seed of immortality
Within itself,--not undismayed, beholds
This fearful tumult of the elements.
Old Ocean meets the tempest and is wroth,
And in his wrath destroys. The wrecking ship,
The sea-boy stricken from the quaking mast,
The burning tear wrung forth from many a home,
To which the voyager returns no more,
Attest the fury of his vengeful mood.
But thou, Niagara, know'st no passion-gust;
Thy mighty bosom, from the sheeted rain,
Spreads not itself to sudden boastfulness,
Like the wild torrent in its shallow bed.
Thou art not angry, and thou changest not.
Man finds in thee no emblem of himself:
The cloud depresseth him, the adverse blast
Rouseth the billows of his discontent,
The wealth of summer-showers inflates his pride,
And with the simple faith and love of Him
Who made him from the dust, he mingleth much
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p. 6 | NIAGARA. |
Of his own vain device. Perchance, even here,
Neath all the sternness of thy strong rebuke,
Light fancies fill him, and he gathereth straws
Or plaiteth rushes, or illusive twines
Garlands of hope, more fragile still than they.
But in one awful voice, that ne'er has known
Change or inflection since the morn of time,
Thou utterest forth that One Eternal Name,
Which he who graves not on his inmost soul
Will find his proudest gatherings, as the dross
That cannot profit.
Thou hast ne'er forgot
Thy lesson, or been weary, day or night,
Nor with its simple, elemental thought
Mixed aught of discord.
Teacher, sent from God,
We bow us to thy message, and are still.
Oh! full of glory, and of majesty,
With all thy terrible apparel on,
High-priest of Nature, who within the veil,
Mysterious, unapproachable dost dwell,
With smoke of incense ever streaming up,
And round thy breast, the folded bow of heaven,
Few are our words before thee.
For 'tis meet
That even the mightiest of our race should stand
Mute in thy presence, and with childlike awe,
Disrobed of self, adore his God through thee.
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p. 7 | NIAGARA RIVER. |
"Deep calleth unto deep, at the noise of thy water-spouts." Most appositely did the poet Brainerd, [sic] in his beautiful apostrophe to Niagara, quote from the inspired Minstrel, "deep calleth unto deep." Simple and significant also, was its Indian appellation, the "water-thunderer." To the wandering son of the forest,
"whose untutored mind
Saw God in clouds, or heard him in the wind,"
it forcibly suggested the image of that Great Spirit, who in darkness and storm sends forth from the skies a mighty voice.
The immense volume of water, which distinguishes Niagara from all other cataracts, is seldom fully realized by the casual visitant. Transfixed by his emotions, he forgets that he sees the surplus waters of these vast inland seas, Superior, Huron, Michigan, and Erie, arrested in their rushing passage to the Ocean, by a fearful barrier of rock, 160 feet in height. He scarcely recollects that the tributaries to this river, or strait, cover a surface of 150,000 miles. Indeed, how can he bow his mind to aught of arithmetical computation, when in the presence of this monarch of the flood.
Niagara river flows from south to north, and is two miles in width when it issues from Lake Erie. It is majestic and beautiful in its aspect, and spreads out at Grand Island to a breadth of three miles, like a mir-
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p. 8 | THE RAPIDS. |
rored lake. At the Falls, it is less than a mile broad, and after emerging from its terrible abyss, flows on of a dark green or violet color, until it reaches the whirlpool. There, compressed to between 5 and 600 feet, it rushes upon a bed of sharp rocks, boiling and breaking with great velocity and suction. After many curves, it regains its original course, and having cleared itself of every conflict and trouble, glides with a placid loveliness to the bosom of Ontario. Altogether, it is a most noble river. Sprinkled with many islands, of a depth of 2 or 300 feet, and in some places unfathomable, it flows between banks sometimes 500 feet in height, having a descent of nearly 350 feet from its efflux at Erie, to its junction with Ontario. Not like those streams, which at some seasons run low in their channels, and at others swollen with a "little brief authority," inundate the surrounding country, it preserves the uniform characteristics of power and majesty.
The Rapids commence about three quarters of a mile above the Falls. The river, after passing Grand and Navy Islands, becomes suddenly compressed, and opposed by ledges of rugged rocks. Over a succession of these it leaps with impetuosity. The total descent is not more than sixty feet, but the effect is grand and imposing. It is more picturesque on the American shore, where the water is less deep, and the conflict more palpable.
These Rapids are exceedingly beautiful, and it is
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p. 9 | Islands |
desirable to secure an apartment overlooking them, where the traveller, in the intervals of exploration, may contemplate them from his window. They are an appropriate preparation for the grandeur of the principal cataract, a preface to a volume of unutterable wonders.
The intersection of the river at the termination of the Rapids, by Goat Island, gives to Great Britain and America a distinct, though unequal partnership in this glorious cataract. The former, or great Horse-shoe Fall, has far greater breadth, and quantity of water. The latter has somewhat more height, and is surpassingly graceful, though less terrific than its compeer. The intervention of Luna, or, as it is sometimes called, Prospect Island, causes another subdivision on the American side, and forms the Central or Crescent Fall, a cascade of surpassing beauty. The Great Fall on the Canadian shore, is 2100 feet in extent, and 158 in height; the American 164 in height, and, including the Crescent Fall, has a breadth of more than 1000 feet. In comparing the British and American Falls, we cannot do better than to use the words of an English traveller, the Rev. Dr. Reed. "The character of one is beautiful, inclining to the sublime, that of the other sublime, inclining to the beautiful."
A bridge of 150 feet, constructed with immense labor and peril, connects the main land of the American shore with Bath Island, from whence a shorter one of about thirty yards gives access to Goad Island. This extends half a mile in length, and a quarter in breadth,
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p. 10 | GOAT ISLAND. |
and is one of the most delightful spots that can be imagined. It is covered with lofty and magnificent trees, and in its rich mould a great variety of wild plants and flowers find nutriment. It is an unspeakable luxury here to sit in solitary meditation, at once lulled and solemnized by the near voice of the everlasting torrent. It seems the most fascinating of all the haunts in this vicinity; the one where we earliest linger, and latest depart. We take leave of it, as from a being of intelligence, to whom we have given our heart. It has shielded us, when our senses were awe-stricken and overpowered, like the cliff where the prophet was hidden when that majesty passed by which none can "see and live."
Embellishments have been spoken of for this island, rustic temples, and winding gravel-walks. It would be a pity to see them here: a desecration to remove for them one of those trees which for ages have struck their roots deep in the soil, every green leaf baptized by the spray of the cataract. Modern decoration would but detract from its solemn beauty. A few seats placed here and there, beneath the deep umbrage, or at those points of view, where the sight of the falling waters best blend with their thunder-hymn, might be a convenience, as would also some improvements for the sake of those of weak nerves, int he carriage-drive around its shores.
At the entrance of this sweet and sacred solitude, a neat cottage, with a fine garden attracts the eye,
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p. 11 | VILLAGE OF NIAGARA. |
where flowers, fruits, and other refreshments may be obtained from a worthy couple, natives of Caledonia's romantic clime. It was pleasant to perceive the restrictions on a board placed over the gate, that the hallowed day of rest would be exempted from this traffic. Here, and at other places in the neighborhood, are a great variety of Indian fancy-work, in beads, bark, and porcupine quills, from whence keepsakes for friends at home may be readily selected. The vicinity of the Tuscaroras, Senecas, and Oneidas, with the industry of their females, keeps the market well supplied for its various purchasers.
The village of Niagara possesses sufficient accommodations in its large hotels, for the throngs of visitants who resort thither during the summer. It has two churches, several mills, and about 600 inhabitants. A descent of 200 feet by a stair-case brings you to the Ferry, which conducts to the Canadian shore. At the base of the first flight of steps is a delightful view of the American Fall. The beauty and grace of the watery column, so fleecy, so sparkling, so flecked with the brightest emerald hue, surpass all description.
The view from the boat while crossing the Ferry is unique and impressive. It gives the first strong idea of the greater magnificence that awaits you. You are encompassed by an amphitheatre of towering rocks and hills. Fragments of rainbows and torrents of mist hover around you. A stupendous column rises, whose base is in the fathomless depth, whose head wrapt in
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p. 12 | FERRY. |
cloud, seems to join earth and heaven. It strikes you as a living personification of His power who poured it "from the hollow of his hand." You tremble at its feet. With a great voice of thunder it warns you not to approach. The winds spread out their wings and whelm you in a deluge of spray. You are sensible of the giant force of the tide, bearing up the boat, which like an egg-shell is tossed upon its terrible bosom. You feel like an atom in the great creation of God. You glance at the athletic sinews of the rowers, and wonder if they are equal to their perilous task. But the majesty of the surrounding scene annihilates selfish apprehension, and ere you are aware, the little boat runs smoothly to her haven, and you stand on the Canadian shore.
Hitherto, all you have seen, will convey but an imperfect impression of the grandeur and sublimity that are unfolded on the summit of Table-Rock. This is a precipice nearly 160 feet in height, with flat, smooth, altar-shaped surface. As you approach this unparapeted projection, the unveiled glory of Niagara burst upon the astonished senses. We borrow the graphic delineation of a gentleman,* who nearly forty years since was a visitant of this scene, and thus describes it from the summit of Table-Rock.
"On your right hand, the river comes roaring forward with all the agitation of a tempestuous ocean, recoiling in saves and whirlpools, as if determined to
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p. 13 | TABLE-ROCK. |
resist the impulse which is forcing it downward to the gulf. When within a few yards, and apparently at the moment of sweeping away, it plunges headlong into what seems a bottomless pit, for the vapor is so thick at the foot of the precipice that the torrent is completely lost to the view.
"The commencement of the rapids is so distant, and so high above your head, as entirely to exclude all view of the still water, or the country beyond. Thus as you look up the river, which is two miles wide above the falls, you gaze upon a boundless and angry sea, whose troubled surface forms a rough and ever-moving outline upon the distant horizon. This part of the stream is called the great Horse-shoe Fall, though in shape it bears more resemblance to an Indian bow, the centre curve of which, retreating up the river, is hid by the volume of vapor which rises in that spot, except when a strong gust of wind occasion[al]ly pressing it down, displays for a moment the whole immense wall of water. This branch of the river falls much less broken than the eastern one, and being, like all the large lakes, exactly of the color of ocean water, appears in every direction of the most brilliant green, or whiter than snow. The face of Goat Island makes an angle with it, and approaches more nearly to a parallel with the western bank; when the second division of the river appears bending still more towards you, so as to bring the last range of falls nearly parallel with the course of the river, and almost facing you.
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p. 14 | FOOT OF TABLE-ROCK. |
These falls are more beautiful, though not so terrific as the great one. Still they appear much higher, as they do not, like that, pour over in a vast arch, but are precipitated so perpendicularly as to appear an entire sheet of foam from the top to the bottom. Seen from the Table-Rock, the tumbling green waters of the rapids, which persuade you that an ocean is approaching, the brilliant color of the water, the frightful gulf, and headlong torrent at your feet, the white column rising from its centre, and often reaching to the clouds, the black wall of rock frowning from the opposite island, and the long curtain of foam descending from the other shore, interrupted only by one dark shaft, form altogether one of the most beautiful, as well as awful scenes in nature. The effect of all these objects is much heightened by being seen from a dizzy and fearful pinnacle, upon which you seem suspended over a fathomless abyss of vapor, whence ascends the deafening uproar of the greatest cataract in the world, and by reflecting that this powerful torrent has been rushing down, and this grand scene of stormy magnificence been in the same dreadful tumult for ages, and will continue so for ages to come."
The view from the foot of the Table-Rock is, if possible, still more impressive. Standing on a level with the margin of the river, and gazing upward, you obtain a more overwhelming idea of the majesty of the flood, which seems to be falling from the heavens.
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p. 15 | PASSAGE TO TERMINATION-ROCK. |
You better realize the height of the precipice, and the tremendous force ofthe torrent. Skirting the base of the Table-Rock, you arrive at the point of entrance, behind the vast sheet of water, which those who desire to traverse, provide themselves with fitting apparel, which is here kept for that purpose. This magnificent cavern is often tenanted by rushing winds, which drive the spray with blinding fury in the face of the approaching pilgrim. Clad in rude garments, and cap of oil-cloth, with coarse shoes,--the most unpicturesque of all figures,--he approaches, striking his staff among the loose fragments that obstruct his way. The path is slippery and perilous, the round, wet stones betray his footing, and sometimes cold, slimy and wriggling eels coil around his ancles. Respiration is at first difficult, almost to suffocation. But the aiding hand and encouraging voice of th guide are put in requisition, and almost ere he is aware, he reaches Termination-Rock, beyond which all progress if hazardous. This exploit entitles him to a certificate, obtained at the house where his garb was provided, and signed by the guide. But should he fail of attaining this honor, by a too precipitate retreat from this cavern of thunders, he is still sure of a magnificent shower-bath.
From the Pavilion Hotel, which occupies the site of another of that name, destroyed by fire a few years since, is a striking prospect of the Horse-shoe Fall, and of the river above it. The deep flood rolls on in
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p. 16 | CLIFTON HOUSE AND DRUMMONDSVILLE |
majesty, yet reluctantly, like a monarch to his overthrow. You almost believe that it is a creature of intelligence, striving to avoid some impending calamity. It seems to turn aside, and to gather itself up as if to escape the plunge. Like our own frail race, it would fain draw back from the adversity in which is its glory. But enforced to the dreaded leap, it makes the plunge with an appalling majesty, amid the quaking earth and thundering skies.
The carriage-road from the Ferry to the Clifton House was cut through a precipitous rock, with great labor and expense. It is perfectly safe, but those who choose rather to trust to their feet, will be rewarded, especially on the descending path, with such wild and bold scenery, as might content them to forego the sight of the mountain-passes of Switzerland. From the piazza and windows of the Clifton House are commanding views of both the Falls. That on the American side is here surpassingly beautiful.
Conveniences are here furnished for pleasant drives on the fine roads in her Majesty's dominions. Most travellers are induced to go to Drummondsville, and visit the spot where the sanguinary battle of Lundy's Lane was fought on July 25th, 1814. A soldier, who was in that engagement, if he does not exactly, like Goldsmith's veteran,
"Shoulder his crutch and tell how fields were won,"
is still prompt and happy to point out every locality
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p. 17 | BURNING-SPRING. |
where the hosts were arrayed, where the conflict raged most furiously, and where the earth drank the deepest draughts of the blood of her sons. He also guides to the burial-ground, where officers and sodliers rest peacefully in death's embrace, and recites with peculiar emphasis, a poetical epitaph on the fallen brave.
On the bank of the river a burning-spring is shown, which emits a stream of sulphurated hydrogen gas, which being confined and ignited by the touch of a candle, sends forth, through a tube, a brilliant volume of flame. This might doubtless be rendered useful for lighting houses, were there any in the neighborhood. But its position is isolated, and the slight tenement thrown over it was filled with a close, unpleasant atmosphere, which one would think must be insalubrious to the man who exhibited it to strangers. A draught fom the spring, which was presented us, was cold, and strongly sulphureous.
Between the Clifton-House and the Pavilion is a Museum, whose contents display taste and perseverance; a Camera-Obscura, which gives a miniature and prismatic view of the Falls, and also the nucleus of a menagerie. One of its principal curiosities were a pair of immense white Owls, who fixed their large, round eyes upon the company with imperturbable gravity, as if determined, by an extra show of wisdom, to prove their claim to the patronage of Minerva. Their captivity seemed neither so irksome, nor so contradictory to nature, as that of a Bald Eagle on
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p. 18 | CHAINED EAGLE. |
the American side, who wears his chain with such a sad, abject demeanor, as to pain the beholder. Methinks the king of birds should be left free to soar at will, in the dominion of the monarch of cataracts. Some of the most majestic Eagles have been found in this region. Numbers of smaller birds are often seen sporting on the verge of the mighty cataract, and dipping their wings in its tinted mist, with a strange enthusiasm of delight. Do they exult in the terrific shower-bath, which man may not approach? or listen with transport to that glorious thunder-hymn, which makes their loudest warblings like the breath of the ephemeron?
There are a variety of objects and collections of curiosities on both the Canadian and American side, soliciting the attention of travellers, which, though they must dwindle into insignificance in the presence of the everlasting torrent, furnish agreeable resources for intervals of weariness. For the senses are sometimes wearied, the eye aches with splendor, and the foot shrinks from climbing; but the mind is never satiated. There is a perpetual change of beauty and of glory, an excitement that never subsides,--a fascination that grows deeper and more pervading every day that you remain.
No one, unless impelled by necessity, should make a short stay at Niagara. A week scarcely suffices for its more prominent features. It should be seen not only at morn, at noon-day, and the sun-setting, but in
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p. 19 | REPEATED VISITS. |
darkness, and beneath the exquisite tinting of the lunar-bow. It is desirable so to arrange the excursion, as to meet there, the summer-moon at its full. Those who have journeyed there in winter, pronounce the scenery to be gorgeous beyond all powers of the imagination.
The lover of Nature's magnificence will scarcely be satisfied without repeated visits to Niagara. The mind is slow in receiving the idea of great magnitude. It requires time and repetition to expand and deepen the perceptions that overwhelm it. This educating process is peculiarly necessary among scenery, where the mind is continually thrown back upon its Author, and the finite, trying to take hold of the Infinite, falters and hides itself in its own nothingness.
It is impossible for Niagara to disappoint, unless through the infirmity of the conception that fails to grasp it. Its resources are inexhaustible. It can never expend itself, because it points always to God. More unapproachable than the fathomless ocean, man cannot launch a bark upon its bosom, or bespeak its service in any form. He may not even lay his hand upon it, and live. Upon its borders he can dream, if he will, of gold=gathering, and of mill-privileges; but its perpetual warning is, "Hence, ye profane!"
Let none, who have it in their power to change their places at will, omit a pilgrimage to Niagara. The facilities of travelling render it now a very different exploit from what it was in the days of our fathers[,]
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p. 20 | INFLUENCES OF NIAGARA. |
who were forced to cut away with their axes the branches intercepting the passage of the rocky roads. Those whose hearts respond to whatever is beautiful and sublime in creation, should pay their homage to this mighty cataract. No other scenery so powerfully combines these elements.
Let the gay go thither to be made thoughtful, and the religious to become more spiritually-minded. Yet let not the determined trifler linger here to pursue his revels. Frivolity seems an insult to the majesty that presides here. Folly and dissipation are surely out of place. The thunder-hymn of the mighty flood reproves them. Day and night it seems to repeat and enforce the words of inspiration: "The Lord is in his holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before Him."
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p. 21 | FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN. |
FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA.
Roll on, proud River, toward the waiting main,
And glow, gay shores, in summer's fostering smile;
Your blended beauties strive to lure in vain
The traveller's eye from yon deserted pile.
For there, in solitary state it sands,
While drooping foliage robes its mouldering frame,
The earliest temple reared by Christian hands
To teach a pagan realm Jehovah's name.
Hail, ancient fane! where first was heard to flow
That hallowed praise which heavenly choirs repeat,
While the stern savage staid his lifted bow,
From echo's voice to learn the cadence sweet.
Here, her frail babe, the matron-exile brought,
Here, the glad lover led his trusting bride,
And in thy solemn ritual forgot
The far cathedral, once their childhood's pride.
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p. 22 | FIRST CHURCH AT JAMESTOWN. |
Were language thine, what scenes couldst thou describe,
When the New World came forth to meet the Old,
The simple welcome of the red-browed tribe,
The high-born Saxon, dignified and cold;
The plumed chieftain, at his council-fire,
The dauntless hunter on the wind-swept hill,
The watchful soldier, and the patriot-sire,
Guarding the infant colony from ill.
The grim gold-searcher, full of venal dreams,
With microscopic eye and restless soul,
Hoarding the yellow earth that lined the streams,
Till meagre famine on his reverie stole.
Perchance, Powhatan here, in regal pride,
His warriors marshalled and his banners waved,
Or Pocahontas, moved with pity, sighed,
O'er the pale victim, by her firmness saved.
Now, all are swept away. From care and toil,
Virginia's sires have sought their mouldering bed,
And the untutored owners of the soil,
Like their own arrow mid the forest, fled.
But thou, Old Church, by hoary Time revered,
And spared by tempests in their ruthless rage,
To hoar antiquity a friend endeared,
Art still the beacon of a buried age.
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p. 23 | FIRST VESSEL. |
And when the pomp and pageantry of earth,
Shall fleet and shrivel in the day of ire,
The meek devotion that in thee had birth,
Shall soar unchanging, never to expire.
------
The voyager upon the noble and beautiful James River, perceives, about fifty miles from its mouth, the ruins of an ancient edifice. It stands upon a slight elevation, and were it mangled and festooned with luxuriant ivy, like the decaying structures of the Mother Land, would present a picturesque appearance. Still, as the first Christian temple ever reared in this new-found world, its associations are vivid and sacred. While we gaze upon it, the mists of more than two centuries fleet away, and the past stands before us.
Lofty forests ascend, and tangled thickets usurp the place of the velvet meads. The snowy sails of a stranger bark glitter in the morning sun. The first Christian vessel that ever explored these waters, approaches the shore, and, in the words of an old historian, is "moored to the trees, in six fathom water, in the great river of Pouhatan, on the 13th day of May, 1607." Then the Saxon race, whose birth-right is to rule, laid the foundation of their first permanent dominion, in the clime which Columbus, one hundred and fifteen years before, had discovered. Smith, who has been justly called the "soul of the infant colony," changed the name of the broad river to "James," in
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p. 24 | SETTLEMENT AT JAMESTOWN. |
honor of his sovereign, and guiding the exploring party through the trackless wilds, suddenly presented himself before Powhatan, the great monarch of the country, while encompassed by his warriors and savage court. He describes his rude palace as "pleasantly situated on a hill, having before it three fertle isles, around it many corn-fields, and strong by nature." What a strange interview, when the red-browed rulers of the land, first gazed upon faces, costumes, and weapons so new and strange, and heard the tones of an unknown language, which was to have the mastery in these realms, when their own barbarous articulations should be a forgotten sound.
In the settlement at Jamestown, lowly roof-trees rise like the mushroo. A rude palisade surrounds them. In the midst, is this temple to Jehovah, over whose ruins, as we linger, the pictured records of its early ritual unfold themselves. We see the masses of fresh, wild flowers with which it was daily decked, and hear the filial petition for a blessing on "England, the sweet mother-country," which mingled with the morning and evening prayer. We see the pulpit, with its hour-glass, on the sacred day reminding the man of God of the fitting limits of his discourse, and that the patience of his auditors could scarcely be expected to outrun the measure of its sands. We see the chair of state for the Governor, with its cushion of green velvet, and the board "on which he kneeleth, covered with a great cloath." Gathered as a congregation, we
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p. 25 | DIVINE WORSHIP. |
see the thoughtful statesman, the high-born cavalier, the hardy soldier, the restless adventurer, the care-worn matron, and the blooming maiden. Change and hardship mark traces upon all, and on more than one brow sits the frown of disappointment. But in the worship of a high and holy Being the soul uplifts itself, and is strengthened. The disunited feel the influence of the Gospel of Peace, and the meek-hearted gather solace from the hopes of another life. The hallowed chant breaks forth, and earth's sorrows are forgotten, while the startled Indian stays his bended bow, and listens through the parted foliage to a strain so passing sweet, which first taught these unshorn forests the praise of God.
Four years slowly notch their chronicles, and pass away. A throng hasten toward the consecrated house. The captain of the watch "shuts the ports, and places centinels, the bell having tolled the last time, and all the houses of the town been searched, to command every one, of what quality soever, the sick and hurt excepted, to repair to church." What occasions this unwonted zeal of purpose, and celerity of movement? An event is to take place for which the prayers of faithful hearts have long ascended to the Father of Mercies. The first Christian convert from the heathen tribes is to receive the baptismal vow. And that convert is the young daughter of their king. The first lamb led by the hand of young Virginia to the fold of the Great Shepherd, approaches timidly, and
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p. 26 | FIRST CONVERT. |
with tears, the simple font hewn from the oak of her native forests. Near her is her favorite and noble-hearted brother, while an elder sister, clasping her infant son to her bosom, regards with intense curiosity a deed, to their comprehension so wrapped in mystery. Plumed chieftains of her nation, and nobles of her own kindred blood, stand like bronze statues, with their eyes fixed upon the princess. She kneels, confesses her faith in the Redeemer, and receives upon her brow that seal, which her future life never dishonored. High honor was it to thee, Old Church! thus to have garnered the first fruits of the wilderness,--to have laid upon heaven's altar the first consecrated rose from these western forests.
This era in the history of our country has been illustrated, by the spirited pencil of Chapman, and placed, by order of Congress, with other national pictures, in the Rotunda of the Capitol at Washington.
Yet one more scene in the ancient church of Jamestown. Around the rough pine columns, are wreaths and knots of the earliest spring flowers; for April has fully justified her appellation of the "bud-opener." She has also decked the earth in the brightest verdure, and filled the air with the music of countless birds. The pulpit, covered with its rich, embroidered cloth, displays the arms of young Virginia quartered with the initials of Britain's king.
Sir Thomas Dale, the wise and stately Governor, is
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p. 27 | BAPTISM. |
there, in his court-costume, with pages and standard-bearer. Other attendants in livery, halberdiers with their armor, and stately officers, the chivalry of England, are in his train. Colonists of all ranks,--the tillers of the soil, the mechanic, the adventurer, are there. Mothers and daughters, youths and children, in their best attire, swell the throng. On every brow is a cheering expectation.
Ranged on the opposite side of the area, rise the tall and plumed chieftains of the forest, gathering around their king, the majestic Powhatan. His fiery, eagle-eye is at rest, and expresses complacence. Nearest him, is his son, the prince Nantiquas, styled by a historian of that day, "the most manliest, comeliest, boldest spirit ever seen in a salvage." Here and there, the red-browed females, their raven locks decorated with feathers, are mingled amid groups of painted warriors.
In the chancel, where a profusion of the richest blossoms breathe fragrance, stood the clergyman in his robes, the Rev. Mr. Hunt, so often designated as the "morning-star of the church." His features and demeanor evince the meekness which had so often breathed peace upon the dissensions of the colonists, and bound them together as brethren, in Jesus' name.
A bridal group approach the altar. The forest-maiden, on whose forehead he had shed the drops of baptismal dedication, bends timidly before him. At her side, is a high-born cavalier of England. Mutual
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p. 28 | BRIDAL. |
love moves them thus to seek the indissoluble vow. The brother of the king,--her haughty and warlike uncle,--with head towering above all the people,--comes forward at the appointed moment, and gives her hand to her destined husband.
Breathless interest pervades the whole assembly. Powhatan, the proud king of thirty nations, is satisfied. Still his lip trembles, when the darling of his heart transfers her fealty to another. The colonists regard the gentle bride as the hostage of peace, and rejoice in an event which will reprieve them from the perils of savage warfare.
The hallowed rite proceeds. The mystic ring is pressed upon the slender finger of the forest-princess. The Old World weds the New. The benediction is swelled by the tearful ardor of many hearts. For the white strangers could not but remember, that in all their sorrows she had been an unchangeable friend. They could not but remember, that amid her sportive childhood, her firmness had saved their endangered champion from the death-stroke; that when they fainted with famine, she brought them corn with her own hands; that she dared, at the deepest midnight, the trackless wild, to warn them of a conspiracy which must have wrought their extermination. They remembered that she was now their sister in the faith, and that in invoking the smile of heaven upon her, they were blessing the tutelary angel of the colony.
Sir Thomas Dale, in his dispatches to the English
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p. 29 | LETTER OF THE GOVERNOR. |
government, dated June 18th, 1614, thus notices these transaction, with his characteristic zeal and piety. "The daughter of Powhatan I caused to be carefully instructed in the Christian religion, who, after she had made good progress therein, publicly renounced the idolatry of her country, openly confessed the true faith, and was, at her desire, baptized. She is since married to an English gentleman of good understanding; another knot to bind our peace the stronger. The king, her father, gave approbation to it, and her uncle gave her, in the church, to her husband. She lives civilly and lovingly with him, and will, I trust, increase in goodness as the knowledge of God increaseth in her. She will go unto England with me, and were it but for the gaining of this one soul, I would think my time, toil, and present stay, well spent."
Two years afterwards, Pocahontas, or the Lady Rebecca,--by which name she was called after her baptism,-accompanied Mr. Rolfe to his native land, taking with them their infant son. They sailed in the same ship with the Governor, and arrived at Plymouth in June, 1616.
Marked attentions were paid the forest-princess, not only by her husband's relatives, but by Anna, the queen of James the First, and several of the nobility. Her profusion of black, glossy hair, and her manners, simple, yet dignified and self-possessed, were admired at court; while her gentleness and piety won her
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p. 30 | DEATH OF POCAHONTAS. |
many true friends. Purchas, in his Pilgrim, remarks, "Not only did she accustom herself to civility, but still carried herself as the daughter of a king; and was accordingly respected, both by the company in which I met her, and by divers persons of high estate and honor, trusting, in their hopeful zeal, through her to advance Christianity. I was present, when the Bishop of London entertained her with festival, state and pomp, beyond what, in his great hospitality, he afforded to other ladies. About to return to Virginia, she came, at Gravesend, to her end and grave, having given great demonstration of her Christian sincerity, as the first fruits of Virginian conversion, leaving among us a godly memory and hope of a blessed resurrection, her soul aspiring to see and enjoy in heaven, what here she had heard and believed, of her beloved Saviour."
Mouldering walls! so fruitful in legendary lore, so entapestried with pictures of the past, ye deserve the thanks of the traveller, and the kind care of those who dwell around. For the sake of the images you restore to us, and the sacred rites you have witnessed, you should be protected from the further disruption of the seasons, and clothed with a robe of the richest mantling vine-leaves.
It has been well said, that "a fine landscape without associations, is like a fair woman without a heart. It is in vain that we see regular features, or a brilliant complexion, unless the soul, looking through the eyes,
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p. 31 | ASSOCIATIONS. |
give the essence of beauty. This constitutes the charm of travelling in a classic clime. The mountains may not be richer, or the mountains more lofty, but every dell and stream are consecrated. Therefore, a new country must be inferior to the old. Its loftiest associations lead but to the labors of the colonist, or his wars upon the wild beasts that were there before him."
Our own country furnishes an exception to the closing remarks of this accomplished writer. Though of comparatively recent date, many of its associations are as lofty and spirit-stirring as those which strike more deeply into the dimness of antiquity. Those of the venerable structure which we contemplate, are mingled with the chivalry of the Old World, and the royalty of the New,--with rites that staid the effusion of blood, and linked contending races in amity--that gathered the first soul from the bondage of idols to the worship of the true God, and girded it to run faithfully the way of eternal life.
Old Church!--first herald of salvation to the western wild,--thou has fallen by the way, but thy ruins are precious in our eyes. Blessed is the young land whose cradle-memories are like thine.
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p. 32 | FALLS OF THE YANTIC. |
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 ths world, from zone to zone,
Had nought of power or wonder known
Like this resounding shore.
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p. 33 | FALLS OF THE YANTIC. |
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.
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p. 34 | NORWICH. |
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 the mountainous country,
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p. 35 | YANTIC RIVER. |
and united 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 s 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 well, 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 whch spans its mouth, and groups of buildings, forming a part of the contiguous city.
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p. 36 | MANUFACTURING VILLAGE. |
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, n 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, t 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 Norwalk.
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
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p. 37 | INDIAN WARS. |
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
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p. 38 | ROYAL BURYING-GROUND. |
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 31st, 1741, in the 28th year of his age.
For beauty, wit, and sterling sense, For temper mile, and eloquence, For courage bold, and things waureegan, He was the glory of the 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 last 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
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p. 39 | WALKS OF CHILDHOOD. |
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. all and beautiful
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p. 40 | NATIVE PLACE. |
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."
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p. 41 | MONTAUK POINT. |
MONTAUK POINT.
It was a summer's day, when old Montauk
First gleamed upon us. Many a mile we drove
Over a treeless region, hill and dale
Wrapped in a short, green sward.
There, grazed at will,
Herds of young cattle, by no fence restrained,
And limitless in their equality,
As a Laconian brotherhood. Quite lean
They were, and agile, and with goat-like nerve
Could scour o'er paths precipitous--yet each
Bent on our vehicles a curious eye,
Pausing and pondering, as if much inclined
Our destination and our names to learn.
'T was strange in such wild solitudes to be
So questioned by those quadrupeds. Perchance,
Some Yankee pedigree they might have held,
In old time far away; for all, methought,
Thirsted to ask our birth-place, and degree,
Date, history, kindred, gains, and hopes, and fears,
And prospects and pursuits.
Right scanty fare
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p. 42 | MONTAUK. |
Had doubtless kept their minds more clear, and lent
A rarer sprinkling of intelligence
Than our sleek herds, who plunge in clover deep,
Ever attain. Yet still, 't was passing strange
Such intellectual intercourse to hold
With horned creatures, and behold them there
Amenable to none. For house, or home,
Or farm-yard, where some tinkling bell might call
Those roaming vassals to their rightful lord,
Though searching close, we saw not.
No frail hut,
Or slight canoe of the poor red-browed tribes,
So numerous once, on their own soil remained.
The white man's flocks and herds outnumbered them,
And took their lands.
Still, as we passed along,
On our right hand the glorious Ocean rolled,
With its long-terraced, thunder-uttering waves,
While on our left, spread out that sheltered sea
Which laves the green shores of my native State,
Approaching gently, with its whispered tides,
Subdued and docile, as a child at school.
The contrast pleased us well, as on we prest
To the sharp verge of that promontory
Where Sea and Ocean meet. And there, we climbed
To the hill-planted light-house, and beheld
The confluence of waters. Studded o'er
The near expanse, the fishing vessels lay,
Each fixed and still, as 'mid a sea of glass;
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p. 43 | MONTAUK. |
While on the far horizon, many a sail
Loomed up conspicuous, as the western sun
Involved himself in clouds.
One house there was,
Where the light-keeper and his family
Dwelt, sole inhabitants, but yet not sad
In that lone place. Young children brought them love,
That other name for happiness, and they
Who dwell in love, do taste on earth, of heaven.
Beneath that peaceful, lowly roof, we found
Order and neatness, and such table spread
As might the wearied traveller well content;
Though all night long,t he melancholy main
Held conflict with the rocks.
Returning morn
Saw us explorers of the sterile coast,
Shell-gatherers and wave-watchers, oft-times lost
In that long trance of meditation sweet,
Which on the borders of the solemn deep
Best visiteth the soul.
And then we returned,
Our way retracing, to that southern point
Where our brief summer-residence we held,
Amid such draughts of ocean's bracing air,
And soothing habitudes of rural life,
So primitive, so simple, so serene,
That languid nerve, and wasted, drooping mind
Alike revivify.
But first, we bade
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p. 44 | MONTAUK. |
Farewell to Old Montauk, and gave thee thanks,
Ultima Thule of that noble Isle
Against whose breast the everlasting surge
Long travelling on, and ominous of wrath,
Incessant beats. Thou lift'st a blessed torch
Unto the vexed and storm-tossed mariner,
Guiding him safely on his course again;
So teach us mid our own dark ills to guard
The lamp fo charity, and with clear eye
Look up to Heaven.
----
The peninsula of Montauk, on the eastern end of Long Island, is about nine miles in length, and from two or three in breadth, gradually narrowing until it ends in a bold cliff upon which the light-house is situated. It is connected with the island by a neck of land called Nappeag Beach, which is but a waste of sand, thrown by the winds and waves into hillocks and ridges, and covered in some places with a scanty vegetation. Leaving this beach and entering upon the upland of the peninsula, we find an uneven surface, moulded into various fantastic forms, the base of which is sand, but which is covered with a soil that yields excellent grass for cattle. The land is, in fact, a vast common, belonging to the people of East Hampton; and here, during the summer, large herds and flocks are fed. There is perhaps no part of our country where the traveller will find such an extent of cleared
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p. 45 | SOLITARY SCENERY. |
land, without bounds or fences, or such herds of cattle promiscuously scattered over the hills and plains.
There are no woods or groves upon the peninsula, and but very few scattered trees. As you advance, however, it takes more of the granite formation, and of the aspect of New England; the stones become larger, and the rocks more angular, as if less beaten and washed by the ocean. There are but three or four families on the point, and their houses are miles apart, so that in the wintry season they must lead the lives of hermits. In summer many strangers resort hither, some to fish and hunt, some to breathe the invigorating sea-breeze, and not a few attracted by the solitary grandeur of the spot. Here you seem separated from the world, placed on a lone promontory jutting out into the great deep. On one side, the nearest land is Europe, and around you, filling all your senses and your whole soul, is the boundless ocean, with its thunder-surge breaking forever against the cliff on which you stand.
The dread uniformity of this scene is, however, enlivened by the multitude of sails that in a fine day pass within view, and by the proximity of Gardiner's and Fisher's Islands, and the southern shore of Rhode Island. These lie upon the northern horizon, and relieve the eye, fatigued with wandering over a world of waves, and the mind, oppressed with the loneliness and sublimity of the place.
This peninsula was formerly the residence of the
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p. 46 | LIGHT-HOUSE. |
Montauk tribe of Indians, who were nearly connected with the Mohekaneews or aborigines of New England. They had the same language, the same customs, the same proud and warlike spirit. Now they are almost extinct. A few individuals of mixed blood remain, who gain a livelihood by fishing, or are employed as servants by the farmers of the vicinity.
The light-house upon this point is a structure of the highest importance. Perhaps no land-mark in our country is more conspicuous, more valuable in a commercial point of view, or more necessary for the preservation of human life. Who can tell how many hearts have leaped at the sight of this beacon light!--how many storm-tossed mariners it has guided homeward:--
"Even as some hospitable man Will light his going guest into the path, And bid God bless him."
Oyster-Pond Point, the peninsula north of Montauk, extends about five miles, and is connected with the main island by a strip of sand-beach. Though diversified by masses of rock, it has a fine soil, and is highly cultivated. It possesses also excellent accommodations for visitors who desire the restorative effects of sea-air and food. One of the most curious objects that they find in this vicinity is an ancient cemetery, in a secluded and romantic situation. It is on an eminence, overshadowed by two higher elevations, and
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p. 47 | CEMETERY. |
covered to its summit with graves. The dark blue slate stones, are mossy and mouldering with time. Some of the inscriptions are nearly two hundred years old, and most of them illegible. Such as can be decyphered, exhibit that singular combination of religious sentiment with quaint humor, which is prone to excite a smile. Here is a specimen of one, bearing no date.
"Here lyeth Elizabeth,
Once Samuel Beebee's wife,
Who once was made a living soul,
But now 's deprived of life;
Yet firmly she believed,
That at the Lord's return
She should be made a living soul,
In his own shape and form,
Lived four and thirty years a wife,
Died, aged 57,
Hath now laid down this mortal life,
In hopes to live in Heaven."
Clusters of islands add beauty to the little voyage to Oyster-Pond Point, from the Connecticut shore. Among these are Plumb Island, which formerly bore the sacred appellation of the Isle of Patmos; Shelter-Island, Great and Little Gull Island, whose foundations of solid rock scarcely resent the wasting effects of the waves; and Fisher's Island, containing about four thousand acres, which has been in possession of the Winthrop family ever since its purchase, in 1644, by John Winthrop, the first Governor of Connecticut.
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p. 48 | GREENPORT AND SAGG-HARBOR. |
Greenport, at Peconic Bay, between the promontories of Montauk and Oyster-Pond Point, is an exceedingly beautiful village. Its bright verdure, and the grace of its waving acacia shades, render the drives in its vicinity very agreeable to the lover of fine scenery, while its appearance of thriving industry is pleasant to the utilitarian.
At Sagg-Harbor, on the southern shore of the island, rural characteristics are merged in the features of a more populous and commercial settlement, and in the habits of an enterprising, active, an accumulating people; the whale-fishery being the substratum of their wealth.
The neighboring town of East Hampton is one of the most desirable spots in which an invalid can seek restoration. The bracing air of the ocean brings vigor to the nerves, while no prescribed etiquette, or aristocratic formality, impose that laborious attention to dress, which marks so many of our fashionable watering-places. The ihabitants are kind and social in their manners. The buildings are principally arranged on a single street of about a mile in length, and present a plain and antiquated appearance. The family of the late lamented Colonel David Gardiner, have here a pleasant country-seat, and their elegant hospitalities are remembered with gratitude by many strangers.
Both here and at the beach at Southampton, a southern wind brings in a magnificent show of waves,
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p. 49 | EAST HAMPTON. |
which a storm heightens to the terribly sublime. In this vicinity, are many varied and pleasant drives. The excursion to Montauk, which has been before mentioned, is most solitary and peculiar. No track or furrow from a previous wheel directs your course. The traveller depends wholly on his guide, the driver of one of those large, strong-bodied Long-Island vehicles, which are adapted to that precipitous region. Yet notwithsanding the apparent perils of the route, it is sometimes chosen as an equestrian excursion, even by young ladies, whose fair forms, in this graceful exercise, amid those wild solitudes, have a striking effect, and carry the mind back to the days of chivalry.
In speaking of East Hampton and the habitudes of its people, the late President Dwight said, emphatically: "A general air of equality, simplicity, and quiet is visible here in a degree perhaps singular. Sequestered in a great measure from the busy world, the people exhibit not the same activity and haste, which meet the eye in some other places. There is, however, no want of the social character, but it is regulated rather by the long continued customs of this single spot, than by the mutable fashions of a great city." Could any suffrage be needed, after such high authority, I would simply record my own hope, once more to be permitted to pass a part of some summer in this invigorating retreat, made pleasant by true-
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p. 50 | GARDINER'S ISLAND. |
hearted kindness, and sublime by the great voice of the glorious Ocean.
Gardiner's Island is an appendage to East Hampton, from which it is distant ten miles. It was originally conveyed by deed, in 1639, to Lyon Gardiner, and has since continued, by lineal succession, in that family. It is connected by legendary lore, and buried treasures, with the tragical fortunes of William Kidd, the pirate, who was executed in 1701. It contains between three and four thousand acres of good soil, with a greater proportion of trees than the smaller islands can often boast. There always seems something attractive in insular life, especially with a pleasant summer residence, on a small domain, girdled by the sparkling sea. It would seem as if the world of thought, of nature, and of books, might be more entirely at your own control, and as if the voice of the deep-rolling main insured you against interruptions, or that fear of them, which often produces the same mental hindrance, as their actual occurrence. Still, it would be desirable not to be too far divided from the mainland, or of very difficult access, lest the romance of the locality should be put to flight by positive inconvenience, or a cloistered seclusion.
On the southern shore of Long Island is a bay, from two to five miles in width, formed by sand-beach and islands, and furnishing a remarkable inland navigation of between seventy and eighty miles. Tracts of salt-meadow, producing a luxuriant growth of grass,
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p. 51 | LONG ISLAND. |
vary the surface of the intervening ridge; the waters are prolific in every variety of the testaceous and finny tribes, while innumerable wild-fowl allure and repay the sportsman.
Long Island has still many unexplored beauties to reward the attentive tourist. Stretching nearly 150 miles in length, having on its north a sheltered Mediterranean, and bared on the east and south to the rough smiting of the Atlantic surge, its shore, sometimes beautified with country-seats, and towering toward the west into the grandeur of rich and populous cities,--then falling back upon the isolating farmhouse, and the whistling ploughboy, anon losing itself in sterile Arabian sands, and frightful cavernous solitudes, it would seem as if some regions of this noble and beautiful Isle contrasted as strangely with each other, as the first rude huts of the twin-brothers on the Palatine Hill, differed from the city of the C#230;sars.