Pompton is a beautiful little pastoral stream,
which after winding lazily through the plain of
that name, joins the Passaic, at a place called
the Three Bridges. The character of this river
and its adjacent scenery is such as I have described;
soft, silent, and gentle. The water hardly
moves; on its banks are vast numbers of stately
elms, whose extensive shade, allures the herds and
flocks, and whose spreading branches shelter an infinite
number of birds, whose song is the delight
of the solitary rambler. The red-winged blackbird,
the thrush, and the clover loving boblincon,
whose notes may vie with the boasted songsters
of Europe—and above all the mock-bird, the variety
of whose minstrelsy imitates the melody of
the whole forest. All these, sport undisturbed
through the livelong summer day, in the rich
meadows that skirt the stream; whose edges, at
short intervals, are fringed with a rich border of
dwarf willows, the little tendrils whereof touch
the surface of the water.
Enamoured of this still landscape, so favourable
for meditation and sleep, the ancient Hollanders
at a very early period settled on these
plains; where their descendants still flourish in
easy competency, and grow in wealth as well as
numbers. Whenever a son marries, an additional
door is knocked into the house, which is commonly
of one story, but makes up in length what
it wants in height; and thus an additional house
is made off hand. Some of these long buildings
are thus divided into several tenements, and not
unfrequently, three or four generations will be
found flourishing under the same roof. As they
all dress invariably alike, it is often difficult to
tell the relation in which they stand to each
other, for they appear nearly of the same age,
and very often the old grand-father will be found
vying with his grand-son, in the labours of the
field.
There is a sort of homely, yet comfortable
simplicity in the lives of these people, which
when soberly contemplated is somewhat touching
to the imagination, as well as gratifying to
the feelings. It is so peaceful, so smooth, so
unagitated so like their own little river. In
short, it exhibits so many of the features of that
little nestling place which every man in his prospective
fancy creates to himself, as the refuge of
his declining years. Perhaps after all, one of the
most genuine pictures of sober happiness which
it falls to the lot of man to contemplate, is that
of one of these old patriarchs, sitting at the door
of a comfortable house, and smoking his long
pipe on a summer's evening.
It has been objected to me, that I have, in my
former productions, dwelt too long and too minutely
on names and places, that have no title
to the attention of any body but a provincial antiquarian;
and that I have in this manner frivolously
wasted the time of my readers who might
have been better employed. In short, that my
works resemble a road-book, where every little
paltry town, blacksmith's shop, and tavern is laid
down, and minutely particularized for the gratification
of the curious traveller.
In consequence of these cavils, and as a poor
author must sometimes pull off his hat to the critic,
the reader will perceive that I have turned
my back upon several towns that occur in the
part of the minstrel, many of which are ennobled.
by tradition. This is most particularly the case
with the ancient city of Brunswick in New Jersey,
where several centuries ago Michael Scot
studied necromancy under Mother Shoulders.
Tradition says, that long before he “clove Eildon
Hill” with a few sharp words, he had signalized
his power by sneezing down the steeple of
the old Episcopal church at Brunswick, out of
pure spite; he being an obstinate sectarian, and
a great enemy of orthodoxy.
