Act 5 — A VISIT TO STATEN ISLAND.

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BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

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I have always had an especial fondness for islands. When, in earlier days, Fancy fashioned some favorite abode, it was often in the aspiration of Moore, “Oh! had we some green little Isle of our own!” I am inclined to think there is something in Nature to sanction this preference. Perhaps the safety of an insular situation from border inroad, and the wild foray, might have given it pre-eminence in feudal or barbarous times. A strange illusion seemed to linger around it, in days of yore: “We, islanders,” said Camden, “are lunares—or the moon’s men.”

The tuneful king of Israel considered the praise of the Creator incomplete, until “the multitude of the Isles,” should swell that chorus. The islands are required to “keep silence,” when an eloquent prophet was about to declare a message from Jehovah. The apostle, to whom the dread future unveiled itself, “was in the island that is called Patmos,” when he saw in a vision the “the heavens wrapped together like a scroll, and the dead, small and great, stand before God.”

Heathen mythology sang to her disciples of the “isles of the blessed.” Classic Greece fixed the birth-place of her deity of the seven-stringed lyre in wave-girdled Delphos, and bade her most beautiful goddess from the foam of the sea.

Modern Poetry has not forgotten to invoke the island-spirits. Shakspeare lifts the magic wand of Prospero in a strange, wild isle, full of

“Sweet sounds and airs that give delight, and hurt not.”

He makes another less lofty character propose “to sow the kernels of a broken islet in the sea, that they may bring forth more islands.” The patriotism of Milton beheld in his own native clime, the chief favorite of Neptune:

“this isle,

The greatest and the best of all the main,

He quarters to his blue-haired deities.”

The Bard of the Seasons still further glorified it, as the

“Island of bliss amid the subject seas.”

It is as easy as it would be tautological to multiply suffrages in praise of insular regions. Still less necessary is it to bespeak popular favor for the island that gives this sketch a subject and a name.

The Dutch settlers of Staten Island seem to have regarded it with an enthusiasm quite in contrast with their usual phlegmatic temperament. Scarcely a century after its occupation by them, the patient and true-hearted Huguenots came to solace the woes of their exile amid its sheltering shades. The armies of Great Britain held it in possession during the whole of our revolutionary contest; and even the indurating influences of war did not render them insensible to its surpassing loveliness.

In later times, the States of New York and New Jersey have contended for its jurisdiction with the warmth of lovers, and the jealousy of rivals. The latter approaches with extended arms, as if to enfold it in an earnest embrace, its bright shores curving closely around the coveted treasure; but the Empire State, upon whose waters it reposes “as a star on the breast of the billow,” has bound the gem to her bosom forever.

Yet neither the taciturn Hollander, nor the mournful alien from France, nor the warring Saxon, nor the native-born American, yearned over it with such intense affection as the poor red man, its earliest lord. He longed to rear his cone-roofed cabin upon its sunny slopes, and to sweep with light canoe into its quiet coves, as his fathers had done of old. Forced by his pale-faced and powerful brother to yield this dearest birthright, he sold for as poor a compensation as the hunter-patriarch, then repented, retracted, reclaimed, re-sold, contended, and vanished like the smoke-wreath among the hills that he loved. Still, he cast the Parthian arrow, and the forests where he lingered and lay in ambush were crimsoned with blood.

Still, his parting sigh, wreathed itself into a name of blessing. “Monocnong,” or the Enchanted Woods, was the epithet he bestowed upon his beloved and forsaken heritage. In the bitterness of parting, he said that no noxious reptile had ever been found there, till the white man, like a wily serpent, coiled himself amid its shades.

MONOCNONG.

Gem of the Bay! enchased in waves of light,

That ’neath the sunbeam rear a diamond crest,

But to the wrathful spirit of the night

Turn unsubdued, with thunder in their breast—

Fair Isle! where beauty lingereth as a dower

O’er rock and roof, and densely-wooded dell,

And in the bosom of the autumnal flower

Foiling the frost-king in its quiet cell,

The Indian hunter of the olden time

Saw thee with love, and on his wandering way

Staid the keen bow, at morning’s earliest prime,

A name of blessing on thy head to lay—

Baptism of tears! it liveth on thy shore,

Though he, the exiled one, returneth never more.

The sail from the city of New York to Staten Island is delightful. The bay sparkled in the broad sunbeam; six miles of diamonds set in turquoise and amethyst. We land, and are borne rapidly along, amid tasteful abodes imbosomed in trees and shrubbery, and adorned with flowers. We pass also the Hospital, a spacious building, where many beds and pillows spread in the open air for purification, denote that disease and death have given a ghastly welcome to some mournful emigrants. Often are we reminded, amid the most luxuriant scenery, that even “in the garden there is a sepulchre.”

New Brighton, as seen from the water, is like a cluster of palaces. Large and well arranged boarding-houses furnish accommodations to numerous strangers, who seek in summer the invigorating atmosphere of this island. Among these, the Pavilion and Belmont are conspicuous.

In descriptive writing, I had formerly a fastidious delicacy about using the names of individuals. When in Europe, I was so fearful of drawing the curtain from the sanctuary of the hearth-stone, as to fail in a free tribute for the most liberal and changeless hospitality. Time, which is wont to destroy undue sensibility on many subjects, has led me to deem this an error. So I will here avoid it, and say with equal frankness and gratitude that those who, like myself, are admitted as guests at the elegant island-residence of George Griffin, Esq., and to share the intellectual society of his warm-hearted and right-minded home-circle, will never lose the pleasant memory of such a privilege.

Among the fine views in this vicinity, that from the Telegraph Station is especially magnificent. I shall not attempt to describe it, not being willing to sustain or inflict the disappointment that must inevitably be the result. Let all who have opportunity see it as often as possible. They can never tire of it. Among the many interesting objects that there rivet the gaze, there will often be descried passing through the Narrows, that highway of nations, some white-winged wanderer of the deep, voyaging to foreign shores. Within her how many hearts are faint with the pangs of separation! How many buoyed up with the vain fluttering of curiosity to visit stranger lands. Adventurous ones! ye know not yet the extent of the penalty ye must pay for this shadowy good. Tempests without, misgivings within, yearnings after your distant dear ones, sickness—that shall make this “round world, and all it doth inherit,” a blank, and a mockery—longings to set foot once more on solid earth, which have no parallel, save the wail of the weaned child for its mother.

Many, and of almost endless variety, are the pleasant drives that will solicit you. The Clove Road, the Quarantine, the lovely, secluded grove, with the townships of Richmond, Stapleton, Castleton, Tompkinsville, Clifton, etc. are among them. Seldom, in a circumference of a few miles, are such contrasts of scenery displayed. At one point you fancy yourself in the Isle of Wight, then you are reminded of the Vale of Tempo, and the fabled gardens of the Hesperides. Fair, sunny lawns—deep, solemn forests, the resounding wheels of mechanical industry, alternate like a dream, with clusters of humble cottages, the heavy ricks of the agriculturist, and rude, gray rocks, from whose solitary heights, you talk only with Ocean, while he answers in thunder.

In our exploring excursions, we often admired, amid its fringed margin of trees, a circular expanse of water, from whence ice is obtained for the use of the residents, and which bears the appellation of

SYLVAN LAKE.

Imbosomed deep in cedars, lonely lake!

Thy solemn neighbors that in silence dwell,

Save when to searching winds they answer make,

Then closer scan thee, in thy guarded cell,

No rippling keel hath vexed thee from thy birth,

No fisher’s net thy cloistered musing broke,

Nor aught that holds communion with the earth

Thy sky-wrapt spirit to emotion woke,

For thou from man wert fain to hide away,

Nursing a vestal purity of thought,

And only when stern Winter’s tyrant sway

A seal of terror on thy heart had wrought,

Gave him one icy gift, then turned away,

Unto the pure-eyed heavens, in penitence to pray.

There are several pleasantly situated churches on Staten Island. The small one at Clifton, with its dark grained arches of oak, strongly resembles those of the mother land. An ancient, low-browed one, at Richmond, was built and endowed by Queen Anne, in 1714. Around it sleep the dead, with their simple memorials. The sacred music that varied the worship, was sweet and touching, and conducted almost entirely by the seven daughters of its worthy and venerable clergyman, Dr. David Moore, a son of the former bishop of Virginia. He has also charge of another church, at Port Richmond. There we attended divine worship, one cloudless autumnal Sunday, not deeming the distance of thirteen miles, going and returning, as any obstacle. It was a simple edifice, on a green slope, that stretched downward to meet the sea. In his discourse, the white-haired pastor reminded his flock that for twice twenty years he had urged them to accept the invitations of the gospel, on that very spot, where the voice of his sainted father had been also uplifted, beseeching them to be reconciled to God. Earnest zeal gave eloquence to his words; and when they ceased, the solemn organ did its best to uplift the listening soul in praise.

At the close of the service many lingered in the church-yard, to exchange kind greetings with their revered guide. Old and young pressed near to take his hand, while with affectionate cordiality he asked of their welfare, as a father among his children. It was patriarchal and beautiful. Religion in its pageantry and pomp hath nothing like it.

A boat, with its flashing oars, bore a portion of the worshipers to their homes on the opposite shore. But on the rocks beneath us sat some listless fishermen, idling away the hours of the consecrated day. Ah! have ye not missed salvation’s priceless pearl? The wondrous glory of the setting sun, as we pursued our homeward way, and the tranquil meditations arising from the simplicity of devotion, made this a Sabbath to be much remembered.

We were interested more than once in attending divine service in the chapel of the Sailor’s Snug Harbor—a noble building, the gift of private munificence, where the bronzed features and neat, tranquil appearance of these favored sons of the sea, spoke at once of past hardships upon the briny wave and of the unbroken comfort of their present state of repose.

The cliffs and vales of this enchanted island are crowned with the elegant mansions of the merchant princes. Among them are those of the brothers Nesmyth, Mr. Anthon, Mr. Aspinwall, Mr. Morgan, and others, that I greatly admired, without knowing the names of their occupants. That of Mr. Comstock exhibits a model of perfect taste. All the appointments within—the pictures, vases, and furniture of white and gold, bespeak Parisian elegance, while the grounds and conservatory are attractive; and in the centre of a rich area of turf, a dial points out the hours to which beauty and fragrance give wings.

The residence of Mr. Jones, at “The Cedars,” has a very extensive prospect, and is embellished by highly cultivated gardens of several acres, loaded with fruits and flowers; and also, by an interesting apiary, aviary, and poultry establishment, where hundreds of domestic fowls, of the finest varieties, revel in prosperity.

The habitation of George Griswold, Esq. is princely, and of a truly magnificent location. While in an unfinished state, the prospect from the windows excited the following effusion:

GRISWOLD HILL.

Earth, sea and sky, in richest robes arrayed,

Wide spreads the glorious panorama round,

Charming the gazer’s eye. O’er wind-swept height,

Villa, and spire, and ocean’s glorious blue

Floats the mild, westering sun. Fast by our side

Frowns Fort Knyphausen, whence, in olden time,

The whiskered Hessian, bought with British gold,

Aimed at my country’s heart. Wild cedars wrap

Its ruined base, stretching their arras dark

O’er mound and mouldering bastion.

With what grace

New Jersey’s shores expand. Hillock and grove,

Hamlet and town, and lithe promontory,

Engird this islet, as a mother clasps

Some beauteous daughter. Still, opposing straits,

With their strong line of indentations, mar

The entire embrace.

Broad spreads the billowy bay,

Forever peopled by the gliding sail,

From the slight speck where the rude fisher toils,

To forms that, like a mountain, tread the wave,

Or those that, moved by latent fires, compel

The awe-struck flood.

Lo! from his northern home,

The bold, unswerving Hudson. He hath burst

The barrier of his palisades, to look

On this strange scene of beauty, and to swell

With lordly tribute what he scans with pride.

Behold the peerless city, lifting high

Its hallowed spires, and fringed with bristling masts,

In whose strong breast beat half a million hearts,

Instinct with hurrying life. The gray-haired sires

Remember well, how the dank waters crept

Where now, in queenly pomp, her court she holds.

Next gleams that Isle, whose long-drawn line of coast

Is loved by Ceres. On its western heights

Towereth a busy mart, and ’neath its wing,

One, whose pure domes are wrapped in sacred shade,

Silent, yet populous. Through its still gates

Pass on the unreturning denizens.

Oh, Greenwood! loveliest spot for last repose,

When the stern pilgrimage of life is o’er,

Even thy dim outline through the haze is dear.

Onward, by Coney Island’s silvery reef,

To where, between its lowly valves of sand,

Opes the Highway of Nations. Through it flows

The commerce of the world. The Mother Realm

Sends on its tides her countless embassies;

Bright France invokes the potency of steam

To wing her message; from his ice-clad pines

The Scandinavian, the grave, turbaned Turk,

The Greek mercurial, even the hermit-sons

Of sage Confucius, like the sea-bird, spread

Fleet pinions toward this city of the west,

That like a money-changer for the earth

Sits ’neath her temple-dome.

Yon ocean-gate,

With telegraphic touch, doth chronicle

The rushing tide of sea-worn emigrants,

Who reach the land that gives the stranger bread,

Perchance a grave. And he who ventureth forth,

The willing prisoner of some white-winged ship,

To seek Hygeia o’er the wave, or test

What spells do linger round those classic climes

That woke his boyhood’s dream, fails not his heart

As the blest hills of Neversink withdraw

Their misty guardianship?

Speech may not tell—

For well I know its poverty to paint

The rapture, when the homeward glance descries,

That native land, whose countless novelties,

And forms of unimagined life, eclipse

The worn-out wonders of an Older World,

That, with its ghostly finger, only points

To things that were.

Oh! great and solemn Deep,

Profound magician of the musing thought,

Release my strain, that to the beauteous Isle

Which hath so long enchained me, thanks may flow,

Warm, though inadequate.

The changeful hand

Of Autumn sheds o’er forest, copse, and grove,

In gorgeous hues, the symbol of decay;

But here and there some fondly lingering flower,

Sweet resonance of Summer, cheers the rocks

Where warm suns latest smile.

Oh, fairest Isle!

I grieve to say farewell. Still for the sake

Of those I love, and for the memories dear,

And sacred hospitalities that cling

Around the mansion, whence my steps depart,

Peace be within the palace-domes that crest

Thy sea-girt hills, and ’neath the cottage roofs

That nestle ’mid thy dells. For when I dream

Of some blest Eden that survived the fall,

That dream shall be of thee.