University of Virginia Library

LETTER VII.

A few days since, I crossed the East River to Brooklyn,
on Long Island; named by the Dutch, Breuck-len, or the
Broken-land. Brooklyn Heights, famous in Revolutionary
history, command a magnificent view of the city of New-York,
the neighbouring islands, and harbour; and being at
least a hundred feet above the river, and open to the sea,
they are never unvisited by a refreshing and invigorating
breeze. A few years ago, these salubrious heights might
have been purchased by the city at a very low price, and
converted into a promenade, of beauty unrivalled throughout
the world; but speculators have now laid hands upon them,
and they are digging them away to make room for stores,
with convenient landings from the river. In this process,
they not unfrequently turn out the bones of soldiers, buried
there during the battles and skirmishes of the Revolution.

We turned aside to look in upon the small, neat burying

ground of the Methodist church, where lie the bones of
that remarkable young man, the Rev. John Summerfield.
In the course of so short a life, few have been able to
impress themselves so deeply and vividly on the memory
of a thousand hearts, as this eloquent disciple of Christ.
None who heard the fervid outpourings of his gifted soul
could ever forget him. His grave is marked by a horizontal
marble slab, on which is inscribed a long, well written
epitaph. The commencement of it is the most striking:

Dwellings were around this little burying-ground, separated
by no fences, their thresholds divided from the graves
only by a narrow foot path. I was anxious to know what
might be the effect on the spiritual character of children,
accustomed to look out continually upon these marble slabs
to play among the grassy mounds, and perchance to “take
their little porringer, and eat their supper there.”

About two miles from the ferry, we came to the marshy
village of Gowannus, and crossed the mill-pond where
nearly a whole regiment of young Marylanders were cut
off, retreating before the British, at the unfortunate battle of
Long Island. A farm near by furnishes a painful illustration
of the unwholesome excitement attendant upon speculation.
Here dwelt an honest, ignorant, peaceful old man,
who inherited from his father a farm of little value. Its
produce was, however, enough to supply his moderate
wants; and he took great pleasure in a small, neatly kept
flower garden, from which he was ever ready to gather a
bouquet for travellers. Thus quietly lived the old-fashioned
farmer and his family, and thus they might have gone home
to their fathers, had not a band of speculators foreseen that
the rapidly increasing city would soon take in Brooklyn,

and stretch itself across the marshes of Gowannus. Full
of these visions, they called upon the old man, and offered
him $70,000 for a farm which had, originally, been bought
almost for a song. $10,000, in silver and gold, were
placed on the table before him; he looked at them, fingered
them over, seemed bewildered, and agreed to give a
decisive answer on the morrow. The next morning found
him a raving maniac! And thus he now roams about,
recklessly tearing up the flowers he once loved so dearly,
and keeping his family in continual terror.

On the high ground, back of this marsh, is Greenwood
Cemetery, the object of our pilgrimage. The site is
chosen with admirable taste. The grounds, beautifully
diversified with hill and valley, are nearly covered with a
noble old forest, from which it takes its cheerful name of
the Green Wood.

The area of two hundred acres comprises a greater
variety of undulating surface than Mount Auburn, and I
think excels it in natural beauty. From embowered glades
and deeply shaded dells, you rise in some places twenty
feet, and in others more than two hundred, above the sea.
Mount Washington, the highest and most remarkable of
these elevations, is two hundred and sixteen feet high.
The scenery here is of picturesque and resplendent beauty;
—comprising an admirable view of New York; the shores
of North and East river, sprinkled with villages; Staten
Island, that lovely gem of the waters; the entire harbor,
white with the sails of a hundred ships; and the margin
of the Atlantic, stretching from Sandy Hook beyond the
Rockaway Pavilion. A magnificent monument to Washington
is to be erected here.

Thence we rambled along, through innumerable sinuosities,
until we came to a quiet little lake, which bears the
pretty name of Sylvan Water. Fish abound here, undisturbed;

and shrubs in their wild, natural state, bend over
the margin to dip their feet and wash their faces.

As a gun is never allowed to enter the premises, the
playful squirrels, at will, “drop down from the leafy tree,”
and the air of spring is redolent with woodland melody.

An hour's wandering brought us round to the same place
again; for here, as at Mount Auburn, it is exceedingly easy
for the traveller to lose his way in labyrinthine mazes.

Except the beautiful adaptation of the roads and paths
to the undulating nature of the ground, Art has yet done
but little for Greenwood. It is said the Company that
purchased it for a cemetery, will have the good taste to
leave the grounds as nearly as possible in a state of nature.
But as funds are increased by the sale of burying lots, the
entire precincts will be enclosed within terrace-walls, a
handsome gate-way and chapel will be erected, and a
variety of public monuments. The few private monuments
now there, are mostly of Egyptian model, with nothing
remarkable in their appearance.

On this spot was fought the bloody battle of Long Island.

When the plan was first suggested, of finding some quiet,
sequestered place, for a portion of the innumerable dead of
this great city, many were very urgent to have it called
The Necropolis, meaning The City of the Dead; but
Cemetery was more wisely chosen; for the old Greeks
signified thereby The Place of Sleep. We still need a
word of Christian significance, implying, “They are not
here; they have risen.” I should love to see this cheerful
motto over the gate-way.

The increase of beautiful burial-grounds, like Mount
Auburn and Greenwood, is a good sign. Blessed be all
agencies that bring our thoughts into pleasant companionship
with those who have “ended their pilgrimage and
begun their life.” Banished for ever be the sable garments,
the funeral pall, the dismal, unshaded ground. If we must
attend to a change of garments, while our hearts are full
of sorrow, let us wear sky-blue, like the Turks, to remind
us of heaven. The horror and the gloom, with which we
surround death, indicates too surely our want of living faith
in the soul's immortality. Deeply and seriously impressed
we must needs be, whenever called to contemplate the mysterious
close of “our hood-winked march from we know
not whence, to we know not whither;” but terror and
gloom ill become the disciples of Him, who asked with
such cheerful significance, “Why seek ye the Living
among the Dead?”

I rejoice greatly to observe that these ideas are gaining
ground in the community. Individuals of all sects, and in
many cases entire churches, are abjuring the custom of
wearing mourning; and Protestant christendom is fast converting

its dismal, barricaded burial grounds into open,
flowery walks. The Catholics have always done so. I
know not whether the intercession of Saints, and long continued
masses for the dead bring their imaginations into
more frequent and nearer communion, with the departed; but
for some reason or other, they keep more bright than we do
the link between those who are living here, and those who
live beyond. Hence, their tombs are constantly supplied
with garlands by the hand of affection; and the innocent
babe lying uncoffined on its bier in the open church, with
fragrant flowers in its little hand, and the mellow light
from painted windows resting on its sweet uncovered face.
Great is the power of Faith!