University of Virginia Library

LETTER IV.

New-York enjoys a great privilege, in facility and cheapness
of communication with many beautiful places in the vicinity.
For six cents one can exchange the hot and dusty city,
for Staten Island, Jersey, or Hoboken; three cents will convey

you to Brooklyn, and twelve and a half cents pays for a
most beautiful sail of ten miles, to Fort Lee. In addition
to the charm of rural beauty, all these places are bathed by
deep waters.

The Indians, named the most beautiful lake of New England
Win-ne-pe-sauk-ey, (by corruption, Winnepiseogee,
which means, the Smile of the Great Spirit. I always think
of this name, so expressively poetic, whenever I see sunbeams
or moonbeams glancing on the waves.

Because this feature is wanting in the landscape, I think
our beautiful Massachusetts Brookline,—with its graceful,
feathery elms, its majestic old oaks, its innumerable hidden
nooks of greenery, and Jamaica pond, that lovely, lucid mirror
of the water nymphs,—is scarcely equal to Hoboken.
I saw it for the first time in the early verdure of spring, and
under the mild light of a declining sun. A small open
glade, with natural groves in the rear, and the broad river at
its foot, bears the imposing name of Elysian Fields. The
scene is one where a poet's disembodied spirit might be
well content to wander; but, alas, the city intrudes her vices
into this beautiful sanctuary of nature. There stands a public
house, with its bar room, and bowling alley, a place of
resort for the idle and the profligate; kept within the bounds
of decorum, however, by the constant presence of respectable
visiters.

Near this house, I found two tents of Indians. These
children of the forest, like the monks of olden time, always
had a fine eye for the picturesque. Wherever you find a
ruined monastery, or the remains of an Indian encampment,
you may be sure you have discovered the loveliest site in
all the surrounding landscape.

A fat little pappoose, round as a tub, with eyes like black
beads, attracted my attention by the comical awkwardness
of its tumbling movements. I entered into conversation
with the parents, and found they belonged to the remnant of

the Penobscot tribe. This, as Scott says, was “picking up
a dropped stitch” in the adventures of my life.

“Ah,” said I, “I once ate supper with your tribe in a
hemlock forest, on the shores of the Kennebec. Is the old
chief, Capt. Neptune, yet alive?”

They almost clapped their hands with delight, to find one
who remembered Capt. Neptune. I inquired for Etalexis,
his nephew, and this was to them another familiar word,
which it gave them joy to hear.

Long forgotten scenes were restored to memory, and the
images of early youth stood distinctly before me. I seemed
to see old Neptune and his handsome nephew, a tall,
athletic youth, of most graceful proportions. I always used
to think of Etalexis, when I read of Benjamin West's exclamation,
the first time he saw the Apollo Belvidere: “My
God! how like a young Mohawk warrior!”

But for years I had not thought of the majestic young Indian,
until the meeting in Hoboken again brought him to
my mind. I seemed to see him as I saw him last—the
very dandy of his tribe—with a broad band of shining brass
about his hat, a circle of silver on his breast, tied with scarlet
ribbons, and a long belt of curiously-wrought wampum
hanging to his feet. His uncle stood quietly by, puffing
his pipe, undisturbed by the consciousness of wearing a
crushed hat and a dirty blanket. With girlish curiosity, I
raised the heavy tassels of the wampum belt, and said playfully
to the old man, “Why don't you wear such an one as
this!”

“What for me wear ribbons and beads?” he replied:
“Me no want to catch 'em squaw.”

He spoke in the slow, imperturbable tone of his race; but
there was a satirical twinkle in his small black eye, as if he
had sufficiently learned the tricks of civilization to enjoy
mightily any jokes upon women.

We purchased a basket in the Elysian Fields, as a memento

of these ghosts of the Past: preferring an unfinished
one of pure white willow, unprofaned by daubs of red and
yellow.

Last week I again saw Hoboken in the full glory of moonlight.
Seen thus, it is beautiful beyond imagining. The
dark, thickly shaded groves, where flickering shadows, play
fantastic gambols with the moonlight; the water peeping here
and there through the foliage, like the laughing face of a
friend; the high, steep banks, wooded down to the margin
of the river,; the deep loneliness, interrupted only by the
Katy-dids; all conspired to produce an impression of solemn
beauty.

If you follow this path for about three miles from the landing-place,
you arrive at Weehawken; celebrated as the place
where Hamilton fought his fatal duel with Burr, and where
his son likewise fell in a duel the year preceding. The place
is difficult of access; but hundreds of men and women have
there engraven their names on a rock nearly as hard as adamant.
A monument to Hamilton was here erected at considerable
expense; but it became the scene of such frequent
duels, that the gentlemen who raised it caused it to be broken
into fragments; it is still, however, frequented for the
same bad purpose. What a lesson to distinguished men to
be careful of the moral influence they exert! I probably
admire Hamilton with less enthusiasm than those who fully
sympathize with his conservative tendencies; but I find so
much to reverence in the character of this early friend of
Washington, that I can never sufficiently regret the silly
cowardice which led himin to so fatal an error. Yet would I
speak of it gently, as Pierpont does in his political poem:

A fine statue of Hamilton was wrought by Ball Hughes,
which, like all resemblances of him, forcibly reminded one
of William Pitt. It was placed in the Exchange, in Wall
street, and was crushed into atoms by the falling in of the
roof, at the great fire of 1835. The artist stood gazing on
the scene with listless despair; and when this favourite production
of his genius, on which he had bestowed the labour
of two long years, fell beneath the ruins, he sobbed and
wept like a child.

The little spot at Weehawken, which led to this digression
about Hamilton, is one of the last places which should
be desecrated by the evil passions of man. It is as lovely
as a nook of Paradise, before Satan entered its gardens.
Where the steep, well wooded bank descends to the broad,
bright Hudson, half way down is a level glade of verdant
grass, completely embowered in foliage. The sparkling
water peeps between the twining boughs, like light through
the rich tracery of Gothic windows; and the cheerful twittering
of birds alone mingles with the measured cadence of
the plashing waves. Here Hamilton fought his duel, just
as the sun was rising:

We descended, to return to the steamboat, by an open
path on the river's edge. The high bank, among whose
silent groves we had been walking, now rose above our
heads in precipitous masses of rugged stone, here and there
broken into recesses, which, in the evening light, looked

like darksome caverns. Trees bent over the very edge of the
summit, and their unearthed roots twisted among the rocks
like huge serpents. On the other side lay the broad Hudson
in the moonlight, its waves rippling up to the shore with
a cool, refreshing sound.

All else was still—still—so fearfully still, that one might
almost count the beatings of the heart. That my heart did
beat, I acknowledge; for here was the supposed scene of
the Mary Rogers' tragedy; and though the recollection of
her gave me no uneasiness, I could not forget that quiet,
lovely path we were treading was near to the city, with its
thousand hells, and frightfully easy of access.

We spoke of the murdered girl, as we passed the beautiful
promontory near the Sybil's cave, where her body was
found, lying half in and half out of the water. A few steps
further on, we encountered the first human beings we had
met during the whole of our long ramble—two young women,
singing with a somewhat sad constraint, as if to keep
their courage up.

I had visited the Sybil's cave in the day time; and should
have entered its dark mouth by the moonlight, had not the
aforesaid remembrances of the city haunted me like evil
spirits.

We Americans, you know, are so fond of classic names
that we call a village Athens, if it has but three houses,
painted red to blush for their own ugliness. Whence this
cave derives its imposing title I cannot tell. It is in
fact rather a pretty little place, cut out of soft stone, in rude
imitation of a Gothic interior. A rock in the centre, scooped
out like a baptismal font, contains a spring of cool, sweet
water. The entire labour of cutting out this cave was performed
by one poor Scotchman, with chisel and hammer.
He worked upon it an entire year; and probably could not
have completed it in less than six months, had he given
every day of his time. He expected to derive considerable

profit by selling draughts from the spring, and keeping
a small fruit stand near it. But alas, for the vanity of human
expectations! a few weeks after he completed his laborious
task, he was driven off the grounds, it is said, unrequited
by the proprietor.

A little before nine, we returned to the city. There was
a strong breeze, and the boat bounded over the waves, producing
that delightful sensation of elasticity and vigour which
one feels when riding a free and fiery steed. The moon,
obscured by fleecy clouds, shone with a saddened glory;
rockets rose from Castle Garden, and dropped their blazing
jewels on the billowy bosom of the bay; the lamps of the
city gleamed in the distance; and with painful pity for the
houseless street-wanderer, I gratefully remembered that one
of those distant lights illuminated a home, where true and
honest hearts were ever ready to bid me welcome.