Oh, Coddington, and ye Assistants of the General Court! what craze
possessed you to change this fair title of the red aboriginal for the
petty appellation of "Rhodes?"
Out upon your taste--your classic affectation! Out upon your
ignorance--to mistake the "Roodt" of the old Dutch navigator for that
name appertaining to the country of the Colossus!
In the title bestowed by Block there was at least appropriateness--even
something of poetry. Sailing around Sachuest Point, he beheld the grand
woods, red in the golden sun-glow of autumn. Flashed upon his delighted
eyes the crimson masses of tree foliage, and the festoonery of scarlet
creepers. Before his face were bright ochreous rocks cropping out from
the cliff. Down in his log-book went the "Red Island!"
Oh, worthy Coddington, why did you reject the appellation of the Indian?
Or why decree such clumsy transformation to that of the daring
Dutchman?
I shall cling to the old title--"Isle of Peace"; though in later times
less apt than when the Warapanoag bathed his bronzed limbs in the
tranquil waters of the Narraganset, and paddled his light canoe around
its rock-girt shores.
Since then, Aquidnec! too often hast thou felt the sore scathing of war.
Where now thy virgin woods that rejoiced the eyes of Verrazano, fresh
from Tuscan scenes? Where thy grand oaks elms, and maples? Thy green
pines and red cedars? Thy birches that gave bark, thy chestnuts
affording food; thy sassafras laurel, restorer of health and life?
Gone--all gone! Swept away by the torch and axe of the ruthless
soldier-destroyer.
Despite thy despoliation, Aquidnec, thou art still a fair spot. Once
more the Isle of Peace, the abode of Love--its very Agapemone; every
inch of thy turf trodden by lovers' feet--every ledge of thy cliffs
listening to the old, old story.
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