Chapter VII: Appendix: 233 (6)

Now, Scip! Lord of the Gold Coast—throw more wood upon the fire—Ay! that will do—my good old faithful servant—that will do—now take that pepper and salt head of thine down to the kitchen hearth, there to retail thy legend and goblin story, or ensconce thee in the corner at thy will—Ah! hah, old Neptune—snug in thy place upon the hearth rug—thy nose lying between thy outstretched paws as thou lookest intently in the fire—Bless thine honest heart!—thinking, I warrant me, of the beautiful child whom thou didst leap the Battery bridge to save. How bravely thou didst bear the little sufferer up on the fast rushing tide. The grateful father would have bought thee for thy weight in gold, as thou didst lie panting and half exhausted—but look not so wistfully my dog—a sack of diamonds could not purchase thee—no—never do we part till death steps in between us—and, by my faith, an’ thou goest first, thou shalt have Christian burial.

Now, dear reader, as thou reclinest comfortably in that big arm chair, thy feet in Ottoman slippers resting on the fender, the blue smoke of thy cigar wreathing and curling around thy nose, as it ascends in placid clouds, and floats in misty wreaths above thy forehead—the glass of Chateaux, like a ruby resting upon its slender stem, light, quivering at thy elbow, and that open Blackwood upon thy knee—dost not—confess it—dost not feel more kind and charitable, than if, with benumbed fingers, thou wert following a frozen visage to thy distant mansion, in the great city’s far purlieus—

But, heaven guard us! how savagely the tempest roars and howls around the chimney tops—Good angels preserve the poor mariner as he ascends the ice-clad rigging—lays out upon the slippery yard—and handles with frost-benumbed fingers the rigid canvass folds. Ah! I recollect it was in just such a night as this, a few years since—years that have rolled past into retrograde eternity, that I was seated in that same arm chair, in the same bachelor independence, the fire burning just as brightly—the curtains as snugly drawn—my beautiful Flora looking down with the same sweetness from her frame above the mantel—my snow white Venus between the piers—the Gladiator stretching forth his arm in just such proud defiance from his pedestal—my Rembrandt—Claude—and Rubens flickering in softness in the firelight—the Fornarina and St. Cecilia with vase of incense clasped, and upturned eyes of deep devotion, hanging in the same placid stillness between their silken tassels, and that Æolian harp chiming just such wild and fitful strains—’twas in just such a cold and inhospitable night, that, sitting with my legs extended upon the fender, I fell into a train of rather melancholy musings.

The clock of St. Paul’s slowly doled out the hour of midnight, and it seemed as if in the responsive, al-l’-s-w-e-l-l of the watchman, rendered indistinct by the distance, the spirit of the hour was bewailing in plaintive tones the annihilation of its being. Time’s brazen voice announced to unheeding thousands—“Ye are rushing on eternity.” I thought of my friends who had dropped off one by one, from around me,—youth and old age had alike sunk into the abyss of death—consumption—fever—palsy—had done their work; the slight ripple of their exit had subsided, and all was still—as quiet and as beautiful as if they had never been. Among others, was poor Louisa S——, in the prime of her youth, and the bloom of her beauty. But one short week—she was the pride of her friends, the idol of her husband;—in another, the slow toll of the village bell announced her funeral. I shall never forget the scene. The soft yellow light of the declining sun was streaming through the lofty elms which bordered the rustic grave-yard, painting their broad shadows on the velvet turf, as the procession of mourners slowly wended their way among the mounds which covered the decaying remnants of mortality. Leaning upon a tomb-stone near the fresh dug grave, I had awaited its arrival. The bier was placed upon the ground—the coffin-lid was thrown open, and friends looked for the last time upon the beautiful face, pallid and sharp in death. Her dark hair was parted upon her forehead,—but the dampness of death had deprived it of its lustre, and her soft eyes were closed in the slumber from whence they were never again to wake. I gazed long and painfully upon that face which appeared to repose only in serene and tranquil sleep, while the sobbing group reached forward to catch a last and parting glimpse of it in its loveliness. Oh! I could not realize that the lovely form was still forever—that those lips were to remain closed, till the day, when amid whirlwinds and fire, they were to plead her cause before the Almighty. The coffin-lid was replaced in silence—a suppressed whisper from the sexton—a harsh grating of the cords, and the gaping pit received its prey. While the clergyman in his deep and gloomy voice, was pronouncing the burial service of the dead, I looked around upon the uncovered group,—the mother and sister in unrestrained sobs, gave vent to their anguish, but the husband stood, his eyes fixed upon the grave in deep and silent agony. He moved not, but when the dead heavy clamp of earth and stones fell upon the coffin, which contained the remains of all that was dear to him, he gave a gasp, as if he had received a death wound—but that was all;—the thick, convulsive breathing, and the swollen arteries upon his temples, showed that his was the bitterness of despair. Ere long, his wasted form beneath its own green hillock, rested at her side.

I had sat some time, thinking “of all the miseries that this world is heir to,” when gradually, my room became mazy, the tongs and fender were blended into one—the fire slowly disappeared, and, to my utter horror and astonishment, I found myself swinging upon the weather-cock of Trinity Church steeple.—How I came there, I could not tell, but there I was. Far, far below me, I saw the long rows of lamps in Broadway and the adjoining streets, shining in lines of fire; while here and there the glimmer of those upon the carriages, as they rolled along, resembled the ignis fatui in their ghostly revels upon the morass. The bay lay in the distance, glittering in the moonlight, a sea of silver, the islands and fortresses like huge monsters resting upon its bosom. All nature appeared at rest. An instant, and but an instant, I gazed in wild delight upon the scene; but as the novelty vanished, the dreadful reality of my situation became apparent. I looked above me—the stars were trembling in the realms of space. I looked below, and shuddered at the distance—I tried to believe that I was in a dream—but that relief was denied me. I grew wild with fear—I madly called for help—I screamed—I yelled in desperation. Alas! my voice could not be heard one half the distance to earth. I called on angels—Heaven, to assist me,—but the cold wind alone answered, as it rushed around the steeple in its whistle of contempt. As my animal spirits were exhausted, I became more calm. I perceived that the slender iron upon which the weather-cock was fixed was slowly bending with the weight of my body, already benumbed with cold. Although it was madness, I ventured a descent. Moving with extreme caution, I clasped the spire in my arms—I slid down inch by inch. The cold sweat poured off my brow, and the blood curdling in my veins, rushed back in thick and suffocating throbs upon my heart. I grasped the steeple tighter in my agony—my nails were clenched in the wood—but in vain; slip—slip—the steeple enlarged as I descended—my hold relaxed—the flat palms of my hands pressed the sides, as I slid down with frightful rapidity. Could I but catch the ledge below! I succeeded—I clutched it in my bleeding fingers—for a moment I thought that I was safe, but I swung over the immense height in an instant; the wind dashed me from side to side like a feather. I strove to touch the sides of the steeple with my knees—I could not reach it—my strength began to fail—I felt the muscles of my fingers growing weaker. The blackness of despair came over me. My fingers slid from the ledge—down—down I plunged—one dash upon the roof, and I was stretched motionless upon the pavement.

A crowd collected around me. I heard them commiserating my fate. They looked at me, and then at the steeple, as if measuring the distance from whence I had fallen; but they offered me no assistance. They dispersed—I slowly raised myself on my feet—all was cold and still as the grave. Regions of ice—an immense transparent mirror, extended on every side around me. The cold, smooth plain, was only measured by the horizon. I found myself on skates;—I rushed along, outstripping the winds,—I ascended mountains of ice,—I descended like a meteor—Russia, with her frozen torrents,—Siberia with its eternal snows, were behind me,—miles and degrees were nothing—on I rushed,—Iceland vanished,—with the speed of a thunderbolt I passed Spitzbergen,—days, weeks expired, but still I sped forward, without fatigue, without exhaustion. How delightfully I glided along—no effort—no exertion—all was still, cold, and brilliant. I neared the pole,—the explorers were slowly wending their tedious way,—they hailed me, but I could not stop,—I was out of sight in an instant. I saw an immense object swinging to and fro in the distance—it was the great and mighty pendulum. As I neared it, a confused noise of voices broke upon my ear,—mathematical terms echoed and re-echoed each other, like the hum of a bee-hive. I was surrounded with winged chronometers, barometers and magnets—plus, (+) minus (-) and the roots (√ √) were flying around me in every direction, jostling each other without mercy. Great long-legged compasses with knowing look were gravely listening to the measured tick of prim chronometers, and groups of angles and parallelograms watched the variations of the needle. Every instrument of science appeared collected in solemn conclave, for great and mighty purpose,—but soon all was hubbub and confusion. The compasses and Gunther’s scale had come to blows. Angles and triangles, oblongs and cones, formed a ring around them. Little cylinders and circles came rolling in from every quarter to see the fun, and bottle-holding squares and cubes stood stoutly at their champions’ sides, while electric jars mounted on a neighbouring dial, in highest glee, spirited forth whole streams of snapping sparks to incite them in the contest. The scale was down, and the compass bestrode him in proud defiance; but the bottle-holders interfering, all was instant uproar and confusion, and the fight soon became one common melée. Pins flew about, and springs and wheels went whizzing through the throng, but amid the tumult, suddenly appeared a huge electrical machine, grinding wrathfully along, and soon the field was cleared, and nought was seen save here and there some limping figure hobbling off in desperate precipitation. But amid the uproar, the giant pendulum still swung forward and backward with the noiseless motion of the incubus;—I neared it and saw that the top of the huge rod was riveted by the pole star, which shone with the intensity of the diamond. But—but—

I saw the ship approaching among the distant icebergs—the great lordly icebergs,—how they rolled and roared and ground against each other in the heavy surge!—their huge sides now shining great sheets of silver—now glancing with the deep blue of the precious sapphire, now quivering in the sun’s rays, with all the hues of the grass-green emerald and blazing ruby,—ha! I saw her—I saw the gallant ship threading her way among them, as their castellated sides towered mountain-like above her. I made one spring—one gallant spring—and catching by her top-mast, slid down in safety to her decks. Her sails were spread widely to the winds and recklessly we ploughed our course onward through the icy flood;—but now her speed diminished—now we scarcely moved. The rudder creaked lazily from side to side, and the long pennant supinely resting on the shrouds, languidly lifted itself as if to peer into the dark flood, and then serpent-like, settled itself again to its repose. A sullen distant roar began to break upon my ear,—it increased,—our before quiet bark, hastening, rushed onwards as if ashamed of her dull reverie; but still there was no wind—the sea was smooth and placid, but the swelling surge was thrown forward from her bows, by the increasing velocity with which we dashed along. The rushing noise of waters increased, and sounded like distant thunder; the white surges showed themselves in the distance, leaping and jumping with frightful violence. I approached the captain;—his gloomy brow—the ghastly paleness of the crew, as with folded arms they stood looking in the distance, alarmed me. I eagerly asked the cause of the appearances before me,—he answered not,—he stood immoveable as a statue:—but, in a cold unearthly voice, a scar-marked sailor groaned, “We are food for the Maelstroom!”—Can we not, I franticly exclaimed—oh! can we not escape? Bend every sail—ply every oar,—“Too late—too late,” echoed again the gloomy voice—“our doom is sealed;”—and the finger of the speaker pointed to a dark fiendish figure at the helm, who, with a low hellish laugh, was steering for the midst. The raging waves boiled and roared around us,—our fated ship plunged forward—a steady resistless power sucked us in,—on we were hurried to our frightful goal. The whale—the leviathan, swept by us—their immense bodies were thrown almost entirely in the air,—their blood stained the foaming brine—they roared like mad bulls. The zigzag lightning in the black canopy above us, was reflected in fiery showers from the spray—the crashing thunder mingled with the yells of the struggling monsters—their efforts were vain—more power had infants in giants’ hands,—the devouring whirlpool claimed us for its own. On we were borne in unresisting weakness—faster and faster,—circle after circle disappeared,—we were on the edge of the furious watery tunnel,—we were buried in its depths,—the long arms of the loathsome polypi stretched forward to seize us in their foul embrace—but an unseen hand raised me.

Green woods—gardens, fountains, and grottoes were around me. Beautiful flowers—roses—hyacinths, and lilies clustering in immense beds, covered the ground with one great gem’d and emerald carpet. The gorgeous tulip, the amaranthus and moss rose vied with each other in fragrant rivalry, and the modest little violet, claimed protection in the embraces of the myrtle. Fountains poured mimic cataracts into their marble basins, or, spouting from the mouths of sphinxes and lions, ascended in crystal streams, irrigating with copious showers the party-coloured beds beneath. The long vistas were shaded with the magnolia and flowering almond, while snow-white statues watched the beautiful picture of happiness around. Birds of variegated colour and splendid plumage were flying from tree to tree, and it appeared as if in their sweet notes, and the fragrance of the flowers, nature was offering up her incense to the Creator.

I was invigorated with new life—I ran from alley to alley—delicious fruits tempted my taste—the perfumes of Arabia floated in the earthly paradise,—music floated around,—trains of beautiful girls moved in graceful ballets before me,—their slender forms were clad in snow-white robes,—their girdles gemmed with diamonds—their alabaster necks twined with wreaths of roses.—A joyous laugh burst from them, as they danced—now in circles—now advancing—now retreating. The circle opened,—a veiled figure was in the midst,—I approached—the fairies disappeared,—the veil was slowly lifted,—one moment—my Cora!—we were alone,—we wandered from bower to bower—her small white hand with electric touch, was within my delighted grasp,—her golden ringlets mingled with my raven locks—her dark eyes melted into mine. I fell upon my knee—a cold and grizzly skeleton met my embrace—the groups of houris were changed into bands of shrivelled hags;—in place of wreaths of roses, their shrivelled necks were covered with the deadly nightshade and dark mandragora—forked adders and serpents twined upon their long and bony arms,—I shuddered,—I was chained in horror to the spot,—they seized me—they dragged me downward to the dank and noisome vault.—’Twas light as day—but ’twas a strange light—a greenish haze—sickly and poisonous as if the deadly miasma of the fens had turned to flame. The dead men with burning lamps were sitting on their coffins,—their chins resting upon their drawn up knees, and as I passed along the extended rows, their eyes all turned and followed me, as the eyes of portraits from the canvass. Ha! what cadaverous unearthly stare met me at every turn;—I looked on all sides to avoid them, but still, where’er I turned, the ghastly muffled faces with their blanched lips, and deep sunken eyes livid in their sockets, surveyed me with frightful interest,—and that fierce old hag—how she preceded me—step by step—her finger pointing forward, while her Medusa head was turned triumphantly over her shoulder, with its infernal leer upon my cowering form.—Worlds would I have given to have been out from among the ghastly crew—but a spell was on me—and I hurriedly made the circuit of the vault, like a wild beast in his cage. But the old knight, sitting grim and ghastly as if by constraint, in the lone corner, his long grizzly beard flowing o’er his winding-sheet,—O! how his cold grey eye glanced at his long two handed sword before him, as I passed, as if to clutch it,—I plucked the old greybeard for very ire—ha! what a malignant and discordant yell did then salute my horror-struck senses,—I gave one bound of terror—and burst the prison door—and—and—

My noble white charger leaped clear of the earth, as he felt my weight in the saddle,—I was at the head of an immense army—my bold cuirassiers formed a moving mass of iron around me. The bugle sounded the signal for engagement;—peal after peal of musketry flashed from the dark masses,—the rattling reverberating roar rolled from right to left,—the gaping throats of the cannon, announced in broad flashes, the departure of their messengers upon the journey of death. On we rushed—battalion on battalion,—we stormed the redoubt,—“Charge,” I shouted,—“Charge the villains—men of the fifth legion—follow your leader—hurrah—they bear back.”—I seized the standard from a fallen soldier,—I planted it upon the blood-stained parapet—horrible confusion!—the trenches were choked with dead—Hah! brave comrade beware!—his bayonet is at thy shoulder—’tis buried in thy heart.—I will revenge thee!—I dashed upon him,—we fought like tigers,—we rolled upon the ground,—I seized my dagger—the bright steel glittered—thousands of deep hoarse voices wildly roared—“The mine—the mine—beware—beware!” Flash—roar—bodies—earth—rocks—horses—tumbrils,—all descending, covered me—and—and

I awoke—the fender and fire-irons upset with horrid din and clatter—the table, its lights and tea-set hurled around—and myself with might and main striving with mighty effort to get from beneath the prostrate wreck which in my terror I had dragged above me.—Old Neptune, aghast, howling in consternation, from the corner, while a group of fellow-boarders, half dead with laughter and amazement, were staring through the open door in wonder at such unusual uproar from the lodger in quiet “No. VI.”

LONG ISLAND SOUND.

But hark! Old Scipio is fast asleep and snoring like Falstaff behind the arras. Now that old negro is as assuredly dreaming of witches, or wrecks, or pirates, or ghosts, that have been seen flitting about the burying-grounds and country church-yards at midnight, as he sits there. He is somewhere between eighty and one hundred, he does not exactly know which; but as your negro keeps no family record, it is safe to allow a lee-way of some ten years in the calculation of his nativity. Of his genealogy though, he is quite sure, for he proves beyond a doubt, that he is the son of Job, who was the son of Pomp, who was the son of Caleb, who was the son of Cæsar, who was the son of Cudjoe, who was caught in Africa. His whole life has been passed in and about the shores of Long Island Sound, and he is not only a veritable chronicle of the military adventures that have been enacted upon its borders in the American wars, but his head is a complete storehouse, stuffed to overflowing with all sorts of legendary lore, of wrecks, of pirates, of murders and fights, and deeds unholy—of massacres, bombardments and burnings, all jumbled up in such inexplicable confusion, history and legend, truth and fiction, that it is almost impossible to divide the one from the other. Sometimes in the cold winter nights, when the storm is howling, as it does now, I put him upon the track, and upon my word, the influence of his gossip told in drowsy under tone is such, that I find it a matter of serious question, whether the most monstrous things in the way of the supernatural, are by any means matter of wonderment; and fully concede, that men may have been seen walking about with their heads under their arms, vanishing in smoke upon being addressed—that old fishermen have sculled about the creeks and bays in their coffins, after they were dead and buried—that gibbets are of necessity surrounded by ghosts, and that prophecies and predictions, and witchcraft are, and must be true as holy writ.

Indeed, with all the sad realities of life about me, I find it refreshing to have my soul let loose occasionally, to wander forth, to frolic and gambol, and stare, without any conventional rule, or let, or hindrance to restrain it. In how many adventures has that good old negro, quietly sleeping in the corner, been my guide and pilot. In our shooting, and fishing and sailing excursions, the shores of the Sound became as familiar to us as our own firesides, and the dark black rocks, with their round and kelp covered sides as the faces of old friends and acquaintance.

At a little village upon its western borders I passed my school-boy days, and there it was that the old negro, formerly a slave, but long liberated and in part supported by my family, had his hut. There it was that under his influence I thoroughly contracted the love of adventure which, in the retrospect still throws a sort of world of my own around me. All sport, whether in winter or summer, night or day, rain or shine, was alike to me the same, and sooth to say, if sundry floorings, for truant days had been administered to Old Scip instead of me, the scale of justice had not unduly preponderated; for his boats, and rods, and nets, to say nothing of his musket which had belonged to a Hessian, and the long bell-mouthed French fusee were always sedulously and invitingly placed at my control. The old negro was sure to meet me as I bounded from the school-room with advice of how the tides would serve, and how the game would lie, and his words winding up his information in a low confidential under-tone still ring upon my ear, “P’rhaps young massa like to go wid old nigger.”

His snug little hut down at the Creek side was covered and patched and thatched with all the experiments of years to add to its warmth and comfort. Its gables and chimney surmounted with little weather-cocks and windmills spinning most furiously at every whiff of wind, its sides covered with muskrat and loon skins nailed up to dry, and fishing rods and spears of all sizes and dimensions piled against them, the ducks and geese paddling about the threshold and his great fat hog grunting in loving proximity to the door way, while its interior was garnished with pots and kettles, and other culinary utensils; the trusty old musket hanging on its hooks above the chimney place; the fish nets and bird decoys lying in the corners, and the white-washed walls garnished and covered with pictures, and coloured prints of the most negro taste indigo and scarlet,—naval fights—men hanging on gibbets,—monstrous apparitions which had been seen—lamentable ballads, and old Satan himself in veritable semblance, tail, horns and claws, precisely as he had appeared in the year Anno Domini, 1763; and under the little square mahogany framed fly specked looking-glass, his Satanic Majesty again in full scarlet uniform as British Colonel with a party of ladies and gentlemen playing cards, his tail quietly curled around one of the legs of his arm chair, and the horse hoof ill disguised by the great rose upon his shoe. But Scip’ was safe against all such diabolic influence, for he had the charmed horse shoe firmly nailed over the entrance of his door.

Oh! how often have I silently climbed out of my window and stealthily crept down the ladder which passed it, long and long before the dawn, with my fowling piece upon my shoulder, and by the fitful moonlight wended, half scared, my way through the rustic roads and lanes, leaping the fences, saturated to the middle with the night-dew from the long wet grass, the stars twinkling in the heavens, as the wild scudding clouds passed o’er them, and nothing to break the perfect stillness. How often at such times have I stopped and stared at some suspicious object looming up before me, till, mustering courage, I have cocked my piece and advancing at a trail, discovered in the object of my terror, a dozing horse, or patient ox, or cow quietly ruminating at the road side.

How often have I sprung suddenly aside, my hair standing on end, as a stealthy fox or prowling dog rushed by me into the bushes, and felt my blood tingle to my very fingers’ ends, as some bird of prey raised himself with an uneasy scream and settled again upon the tree tops, as I passed beneath. How I used to screw my courage up, as with long strides and studiously averted eyes, I hurried past the dreaded grave yard; and as I came upon the borders of the winding creek, and walked splashing through its ponds and shallows, how would I crouch and scan through the dim light to catch a glimpse of some stray flock of ducks or teal, that might be feeding upon its sedges. How would I bend and stoop as I saw them delightfully huddled in a cluster, till getting near I would find an envious bend of long distance to be measured before I could get a shot. How patiently would I creep along—and stop—and crouch—and stop, till getting near, and nearer—a sudden slump into some unseen bog or ditch would be followed by a quick “quack”—“quack”—and off they’d go—far out of reach of shot or call. But all would be forgotten when I reached the old Negro’s hut. There a hot corn cake and broiled fish or bird, was always on the coals to stay my appetite—and then off we’d sally to the Bar to lie in wait for the wild fowl as they came over it at day break. The snipe in little clouds would start up with their sharp “pewhit” before us, as we measured the broad hard flats left damp and smooth by the receding tide; the Kildare with querulous cry would wing away his flight, and the great gaunt cranes, looming, spectre-like, in the moonlight, sluggishly stalking onwards, would clumsily lift their long legs in silence as we advanced, and fan themselves a little farther from our proximity.

Arriving, we would lay ourselves down, and on the stones await the breaking of the dawn, when the wild-fowl feeding within the bay arise and fly to the south-ward over it. Dark objects, one after another, would glide by us, and in silence take their places along the bar, bent on the same sport that we were awaiting, and nothing would break the stillness save the gentle wash and ripple of the waves upon the sands, or the uneasy and discordant cry of the oldwives, feeding on the long sedge within the wide-extended bay. The stars would ere long begin to fade, the east grow grey, then streaked with light, and every sportsman’s piece be cocked with eager expectation. A flash—a puff of smoke at the extreme end, showed that a flock had risen, and simultaneously birds would be seen tumbling headlong. As the astonished flock glanced along the bar—flash—flash—puff—bang, would meet them, their numbers thinning at each discharge, till passing along the whole line of sportsmen, they would be almost annihilated; or wildly dashing through some wider interval in the chain of gunners, they would cross the bar and escape in safety. Then as the light increased followed the excitement; the birds getting up in dense flocks, all bent in one direction, a complete feu-de-joie saluted them—flash—flash—flash—the reports creeping slowly after, the wild-fowl tumbling headlong, some into the water, and some upon the sportsmen; while here a gunner, dropping his piece, might be seen rushing in up to his neck recklessly after his victim, and there some staunch dog’s nose just above the surface, unweariedly pursuing the wing-broken sufferer, which still fluttered forward at his near approach. Ah, ha! that—that was sport. Hundreds of wild-fowl, from the little graceful teal to the great fishy loon and red-head brant, were the fruits of the morning’s adventure. And what a contrast the sparkling eyes and glowing faces of the elated sportsmen to the city’s pale and care-worn countenances. They were a true democracy, white man, and black, and half-breed, the squire and the ploughman, all met in like equality.

Among the sportsmen on the bar at the season that I have just described, there was always found a tall, gaunt, and extremely taciturn old Indian, who passed among the people by the name of “Pequot.” His hut was about a mile beyond Scipio’s, on the same creek, and like him, he obtained his support mainly by the fruits of his hunting and fishing. Now and then, in the harvest, or when the game was scarce, he would assist the farmers in their lighter work, receiving, with neither thanks nor stipulation, such recompense as they saw fit to make; and sometimes, in the cold depths of winter, he would appear, and silently sitting at their firesides, receive, as a sort of right, his trencher at their tables. He was so kind in his assistance, and so inoffensive to all around him, that he was always sure of welcome. But there was a marked feature in his character, and one most unusual to the Indian’s nature, which was his dislike, almost to loathing, of ardent spirits. He was a great deal at Scipio’s hut, and I was strongly struck (boy as I was) with the harmony which subsisted between two characters so apparently dissimilar—the sullen, almost haughty Indian, and the light-hearted, laughter-loving negro; but there was a sort of common sympathy—of oppression, I suppose—between them, for they always assisted one another; and sometimes I have known them gone for days together in their fishing expeditions on the Sound. All the information that Scipio could give me about him, was that he had been the same ever since he had known him, that he was supposed to have come in from some of the Western tribes, and that from his haunting a great deal about a neighbouring swamp, where the gallant tribe of Pequots had, long years before, been massacred by fire and sword, the people had given him the name of Pequot. Whatever he was, he was a noble old Indian; the poetry of the character was left, while contact with the whites, and the kind teachings of the Moravians had hewn away the sterner features of the savage. I remember that I used to look at him, with all a boy’s enthusiasm, admiring him with a mingled sense of sympathy and awe. Even old Scip showed him habitual deference, for there was a melancholy dignity about him; and his words, short and sententious, were delivered with scrupulous exactness. I recollect once being completely taken aback by the display of a sudden burst of feeling, which completely let me into his ideal claims and imaginary pretensions.

There was a good-natured old Indian, by the name of Pamanack, belonging to one of the tribes which still clung to Long Island, in the vicinity of Montaukett, who occasionally made his appearance off old Scip’s hut, in the Sound, in his periogue, accompanied by some half dozen long-legged, straight-haired, copper-coloured youths, his descendants. They every now and then came cruising along the various fishing-grounds, and always, when in the vicinity of Scip, the old Indian would pay him a visit, and receive a return for the hospitality paid to the black man, when, in his similar excursions, he got as far eastward as Montaukett. On the particular occasion to which I have alluded, old Pamanack had drank more than was good for him, when the Pequot presented himself silently at the door of Scipio’s hut, and leaning upon his long ducking-gun, looked in upon the group. After a few words of recognition passed between them, Pamanack held out his black bottle, and invited the visiter to drink. Pequot drew himself up to his extreme height, and for a moment there was a mingled expression of loathing, abhorrence, and ferocity, flashing from his countenance that showed that his whole Indian’s nature was in a blaze; but it was only momentary, for in another, the expression vanished from his countenance, the habitual melancholy resumed its place upon his features, and the words fell slowly, almost musically, from his lips:—“The fire water—the fire water—ay, the same—the Indian and his deadly enemy.” Then looking steadily at Pamanack, as he held the bottle still towards him:—“Pequot will not drink. Why should Pamanack swallow the white man’s poison, and with his own hands dig his grave?

“Pamanack is not alone! His squaw watches at the door of his wigwam, as she looks out upon the long waves of the ocean tumbling in upon the shores of Montaukett. His young men gather about him and catch the tautug from its huge beetling rocks, and tread out the quahog from its muddy bed. His old men still linger on the sandy beach, and their scalp-locks float wildly in the fresh sea-breeze. Pamanack has yet a home:—but Pequot—he is the last of his race. He stands on the high hills of Tashaway, and he sees no smoke but that from the wigwams of the Long Knives. He moves in silence along the plains of Pequonnuck,—but the fences of the pale faces obstruct his progress. His canoe dances at the side of the dripping rocks,—but the cheating white men paddle up to his side. His feet sink in the ploughed field,—but it is not the corn of the red man. His squaw has rolled her last log, and lies cold in her blanket. His young men,—the fire water and fire dust have consumed them. Pequot looks around for his people—where are they? The black snake and muskrat shoot through the water as his moccasin treads the swamp, where their bones lie, deep covered from the hate of their enemies. Pequot is the last of his race! Pamanack is good, but the heart of Pequot is heavy. He cannot drink the fire water, for his young men have sunk from its deadly poison, as the mist-wreath in the midday sun. The good Moravians have told him that it is bad—and Pequot will drink no more—for his race is nearly run. Pequot will sit on the high rocks of Sasco, and his robe shall fall from his shoulders as his broad chest waits the death-arrow of the Great Spirit. There will he sit and smoke in silence as he looks down upon the deserted hunting-grounds of his fathers. Pequot’s heart is heavy,—Pequot will not drink.” As he finished the last words, he abruptly turned, and was soon far distant on the sands, moving towards the high hill of which he had spoken. The Great Spirit was kind to him, for a few years after he was found stark and stiff, frozen to death on the very rocks to which he had alluded. As for old Pamanack, he did not appear to hold the fire water in such utter abhorrence; for, taking a long swig at the bottle, his eye following the retiring form of the Pequot, he slowly muttered, “Nigger drink—white man drink—why no Indian drink too?”

But the Sound! the Sound! Oh! how many delightful reminiscences does the name bring to my recollection. The Sound! with its white sand banks, and its wooded shores—its far broad bosom, covered with fleets of sails scudding along in the swift breeze in the open day, and its dark waves rolling and sweeping in whole streams of phosphorescent fire from their plunging bows as they dash through it in the darkness of midnight. The Sound! redolent with military story. The Sound! overflowing with supernatural legend and antiquated history. Oh! reader, if you had been cruising along its shores from infancy, as I have, if you had grown up among its legends, and luxuriated in its wild associations,—if you had spent whole days on its broad sand beaches, watching the gulls as they sailed above you, or the snipe as they ran along on the smooth hard flats,—if you had lain on the white frozen snows on its shore in the still nights of mid-winter, your gun by your side, gazing till your soul was lost in the blue spangled vault, as it hung in serene and tranquil grandeur above you, your mind, in unconscious adoration, breathing whole volumes of gratitude and admiration to the great God that gave you faculties to enjoy its sublimity; and in the stillness, unbroken save by the cry of the loon as he raised himself from the smooth water, seen in every sail moving in silence between you and the horizon the “Phantom Ship,” or some daring bucaneer, and in every distant splash heard a deed of darkness and mystery, then could you enter into my feelings.

Oh! to me its black rocks and promontories, and islands, are as familiar as the faces of a family. Are there not the “Brothers,” unnatural that they are, who, living centuries together, never to one another have as yet spoken a kindly word,—and the great savage “Executioners,” and “Throgs,” and “Sands,” and “Etons,” all throwing hospitable lights from their high beacon towers, far forward, to guide the wandering mariner; and the “Devil’s Stepping-stones,” o’er which he bounded when driven from Connecticut; and the great rocks too, inside of Flushing bay on which he descended, shivering them from top to bottom as he fell. And are there not the “Norwalk Islands,” with their pines—“Old Sasco,” with her rocks,—“Fairweather,” with the wild bird’s eggs deep buried in her sands,—and the far-famed fishing-banks off the “Middle ground.” Ay! and is it not from the fierce boiling whirlpools of the “Gate” “to Gardiners,” and the lone beacon tower of “Old Montaukett,” one continuous ground of thrilling lore and bold adventure. In her waters the “Fire ship” glared amid the darkness, her phantom crew, like red hot statues, standing at their quarters, as rushing onwards, in the furious storm, she passed the shuddering mariner, leaving, comet like, long streams of flame behind. Beneath her sands the red-shirted bucaneers did hide their ill-gotten, blood-bespotted treasure. Ay! and ’twas on her broad bosom that, with iron-seared conscience sailed that pirate, fierce and bold, old Robert Kidd; and to this very day his golden hoards, with magic mark and sign, still crowd her wooded shores.

Hah! ha! how, were he waking, old Scipio’s eyes would upward roll their whites, if he did but hear that name so dread and grim. If, from very eagerness, he could utter forth his words, he would give whole chapters—ay—one from his own family history—for Kidd’s men caught old Cudjoe, his great ancestor, clamming on the beach off Sasco, and without more ado carried him aboard. As the old negro was sulky, they tumbled his well-filled basket into the galley’s tank, and incontinently were about to run him up to dangle at their long yard-arm, when Kidd, who was taking his morning “drink of tobacco” on his poop, roared out, in voice of thunder, “Ho! Scroggs—boatswain—dost hang a black-a-moor at my yard-arm, where so many gentlemen have danced on nothing?—In the foul devil’s name, scuttle the goggled-eyed fiend to the sharks overboard,”—and overboard he went, but diving like a duck, he escaped their firelocks’ quick discharge, and reached the shore in safety.

Ay! and his deep buried treasures! Where went the gold dust from the coast of Guinea?—the gems from Madagascar?—where the dollars and doubloons pirated from the Spanish galleons?—the broken plate and crucifixes from the shores of Panama?—and where the good yellow gold, stamped with the visage of his most gracious majesty?—where! where, but on the haunted borders of this very Sound. Why, the very school-boys, playing in the woods upon its shores, know when the earth doth hollow sound beneath their feet, that Kidd’s treasure’s buried there. Do they disturb it? No—not they—they know too well the fierce and restless spirit that guards the iron pot. Didst ever hear the brave old ballad—“_As he sail’d, as he sail’d?_” It’s a glorious old ballad—it’s a true old ballad—and a time-honoured old ballad—it gives his veritable history. It has been printed in black letter, and sung time out of mind. It has been chanted by the old tars in sultry calms of the tropics, and the greasy whalers have kept time to it over their trying kettles on the smooth Pacific. It has been sung amid the icebergs of Greenland, and heard on the coast of New Holland; the spicy breezes of Ceylon have borne it among the sleeping tigers in their jungles, and the Hottentots have pulled tighter their breech-cloths as they have listened to its tones. The Chinese, and the Turks, and the Dutchmen, and the Danes, and every thing human within the smell of salt water, have heard it,—ay! and that too in the rich manly tones of the English and American sailors. Ho! Scip!—wake from out thy corner, and give us the old ballad. Shades of red-capped bucaneers!—fierce negro slavers!—spirits of the gallant men who fought the British on her shores!—desperate old Kidd in person!—we conjure you—we conjure you—arise and hover around us, whilst we chaunt the lay. Ho! Scipio!—the old ballad, as it stood smoke-blacked, and grimed upon thy cabin’s walls—ay! that is it—and in tones which chimed well in unison with the dreary storm and howling blast without.

“YE LAMENTABLE BALLAD, AND YE TRUE HISTORIE OF CAPTAINE ROBERT KIDD, WHO WAS HANGED IN CHAINS AT EXECUTION DOCK, FOR PIRACY AND MURDER ON YE HIGH SEAS.”

[Sidenote: He calleth upon the captains:]

You captains bold and brave, hear our cries, hear our cries,
You captains bold and brave, hear our cries,
You captains brave and bold, tho’ you seem uncontroll’d,
Don’t for the sake of gold lose your souls, lose your souls,
Don’t for the sake of gold lose your souls.

[Sidenote: He stateth his name and acknowledgeth his wickedness:]

My name was Robert Kidd, when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
My name was Robert Kidd, when I sail’d,
My name was Robert Kidd, God’s laws I did forbid,
And so wickedly I did, when I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He beareth witness to the good counsel of his parents:]

My parents taught me well, when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
My parents taught me well, when I sail’d,
My parents taught me well to shun the gates of hell,
But against them I rebell’d when I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He curseth his father and his mother dear:]

I cursed my father dear, when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
I cursed my father dear, when I sail’d,
I cursed my father dear and her that did me bear,
And so wickedly did swear, when I sail’d.

[Sidenote: And blasphemeth against God:]

I made a solemn vow when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
I made a solemn vow when I sail’d,
I made a solemn vow, to God I would not bow,
Nor myself one prayer allow, as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He burieth the Good Book in sand:]

I’d a Bible in my hand when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
I’d a Bible in my hand when I sail’d,
I’d a Bible in my hand by my father’s great command,
And I sunk it in the sand, when I sail’d.

[Sidenote: And murdereth William Moore:]

I murdered William Moore, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I murdered William Moore, as I sail’d,
I murdered William Moore, and left him in his gore,
Not many leagues from shore as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: And also cruelly killeth the gunner.]

And being cruel still, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
And being cruel still, as I sail’d,
And being cruel still, my gunner I did kill,
And his precious blood did spill, as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: His mate, being about to die, repenteth and warneth him in his career.]

My mate was sick and died as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
My mate was sick and died as I sail’d,
My mate was sick and died, which me much terrified,
When he called me to his bedside as I sail’d.

And unto me he did say, see me die, see me die,
And unto me did say see me die,
And unto me did say, take warning now by me,
There comes a reckoning day, you must die.

You cannot then withstand, when you die, when you die,
You cannot then withstand when you die,
You cannot then withstand the judgments of God’s hand,
But bound then in iron bands, you must die.

[Sidenote: He falleth sick, and promiseth repentance, but forgetteth his vows.]

I was sick and nigh to death, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I was sick and nigh to death as I sail’d,
And I was sick and nigh to death, and I vowed at every breath
To walk in wisdom’s ways as I sail’d.

I thought I was undone as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I thought I was undone as I sail’d,
I thought I was undone and my wicked glass had run,
But health did soon return as I sail’d.

My repentance lasted not, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
My repentance lasted not, as I sail’d,
My repentance lasted not, my vows I soon forgot,
Damnation’s my just lot, as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He steereth thro’ _Long Island_ and other Sounds.]

I steer’d from Sound to Sound, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I steer’d from Sound to Sound, as I sail’d,
I steer’d from Sound to Sound, and many ships I found
And most of them I burn’d as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He chaseth three ships of France.]

I spy’d three ships from France, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships from France, as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships from France, to them I did advance,
And took them all by chance, as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: And also three ships of Spain.]

I spy’d three ships of Spain, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships of Spain as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships of Spain, I fired on them amain,
Till most of them were slain, as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He boasteth of his treasure.]

I’d ninety bars of gold, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I’d ninety bars of gold, as I sail’d,
I’d ninety bars of gold, and dollars manifold,
With riches uncontroll’d, as I sail’d.

[Sidenote: He spyeth fourteen ships in pursuit, and surrendereth.]

Then fourteen ships I saw, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
Then fourteen ships I saw as I sail’d,
Then fourteen ships I saw and brave men they are,
Ah! they were too much for me as I sail’d.

Thus being o’ertaken at last, I must die, I must die,
Thus being o’ertaken at last, I must die,
Thus being o’ertaken at last, and into prison cast,
And sentence being pass’d, I must die.

[Sidenote: He biddeth farewell to the seas, and the raging main.]

Farewell the raging sea, I must die, I must die,
Farewell the raging main, I must die,
Farewell the raging main, to Turkey, France, and Spain,
I ne’er shall see you again, I must die.

[Sidenote: He exhorteth the young and old to take counsel from his fate:]

To Newgate now I’m cast, and must die, and must die,
To Newgate now I’m cast, and must die,
To Newgate I am cast, with a sad and heavy heart,
To receive my just desert, I must die.

To Execution Dock I must go, I must go,
To Execution Dock I must go,
To Execution Dock will many thousands flock,
But I must bear the shock, I must die.

Come all you young and old, see me die, see me die,
Come all young and old, see me die,
Come all you young and old, you’re welcome to my gold,
For by it I’ve lost my soul, and must die.

[Sidenote: And declareth that he must go to hell, and be punished for his wickedness.]

Take warning now by me, for I must die, for I must die,
Take warning now by me, for I must die,
Take warning now by me, and shun bad company,
Lest you come to hell with me, for I must die,
Lest you come to hell with me, for I must die.

GREEN-WOOD CEMETERY.

[To the untiring exertions of Major D. B. Douglass, Messrs.
Joseph A. Perry, Henry E. Pierrepont, Gerrit G. Van Wagenen,
and a few other liberal minded gentlemen, the public are
indebted for the design and completion of this beautiful place
of repose for the dead. It is anticipated that ten miles of
avenue will be completed during the coming summer, and when the
whole is laid out, according to the proposed plan, that there
will be fifteen miles of picturesque road within its precincts.
Part of the battle of Long Island in the Revolution was fought
upon its grounds, and it is intended at no distant day, to
remove the remains of those that perished in the Prison Ships
to the Cemetery, where they will sleep undisturbed beneath an
appropriate monument. The views from Mount Washington, and
other eminences, within its precincts, embrace the entire
bay and harbour of New-York, with their islands and forts:
the cities of New-York and Brooklyn; the shores of the North
and East Rivers; New-Jersey, Staten Island, the Quarantine;
unnumbered towns and villages sprinkled over the wide expanse
of the surrounding country, and the margin of the broad
Atlantic, from Sandy Hook, to a distance far beyond the
Rockaway Pavilion. The fine old forest which covers the greater
part of the grounds, shrouding and almost concealing from
sight, several beautiful lakes and sheets of water suggested
the name, with which it has been consecrated, the Green-Wood
Cemetery.]

WHERE, THEN, IS DEATH!—and my own voice startled me from my reverie as, leaning on my saddle-bow on the summit of Mount Washington in the Greenwood Cemetery, I asked—_Where, then, is death!_ The golden sun of a delicious summer’s afternoon was streaming o’er the undulating hills of Staten Island lighting more brilliantly the snow-white villas and emerald lawns:—the Lazaretto—its fleet gay with the flags of all the nations, was nestling like a fairy city at its feet:—the noble bay before me was one great polished mirror—motionless vessels with white sails and drooping pennants, resting on its surface, like souls upon the ocean of Eternity, and every thing around was bright and still and beautiful as I asked myself the question—_Where, then, is death!_

The islands with their military works lay calm and motionless upon the waters—the grim artillery, like sleeping tigers crouched upon the ramparts and the castle’s walls—but the glistening of the sentry’s polished musket, and the sudden clamorous roll of drums showed me, that—_not there was death_.

I turned.—The great fierce city extending as far as eye could reach—the sky fretted with her turrets and her spires—her thousand smokes rising and mingling with the o’erhanging-clouds;—as she rose above her bed of waters, with hoarse continuous roar, cried to me—“_Look not here, not here—for death!_” Her sister city, with her towers and cupolas—her grassy esplanades surmounted with verdant trees and far extending colonnades embowered in shrubbery,—from her high terraced walls, re-echoed the hollow roar—“_Not here for death!_”

The island lay extended far before me—its farms and towns—its modest spires—its granaries—its verdant meadows—its rich cultivated fields—its woods—its lawns—all wrapped in silence, but still its whisper softly reached me—“_Not here—not here—is death!_”—E’en the great distant ocean, closed only from my view by the far-reaching horizon, in sullen continuous murmurs moaned—“_Not here is death!_”

Where, then, I cried—_where, then, is death?_ I looked above me, and the blue vault hung pure and motionless—light fleecy clouds like angels on their journeys, alone resting on its cerulean tint,—around, the evening breeze played calm and gently,—and beneath the flowers and leaves were quivering with delight, while the incessant hum of insect life, arising from the earth with ceaseless voice, still cried—“_No—no—not here is death!_”

Ah! said I, this beautiful world shall be forever, and there is—there is no death—but even as I spoke, a warning voice struck with deep solemnity upon my startled ear,—“Man that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”—And as I turned, the funeral procession—its minister and its mourners passed onward in their journey with the silent dead.