as the faces of a family. Are there not the “Brothers,” unnatural that
they are, who, living centuries together, never to one another have
as yet spoken a kindly word,—and the great savage “Executioners,” and
“Throgs,” and “Sands,” and “Etons,” all throwing hospitable lights from
their high beacon towers, far forward, to guide the wandering mariner;
and the “Devil’s Stepping-stones,” o’er which he bounded when driven
from Connecticut; and the great rocks too, inside of Flushing bay on
which he descended, shivering them from top to bottom as he fell. And
are there not the “Norwalk Islands,” with their pines—“Old Sasco,”
with her rocks,—“Fairweather,” with the wild bird’s eggs deep buried
in her sands,—and the far-famed fishing-banks off the “Middle ground.”
Ay! and is it not from the fierce boiling whirlpools of the “Gate” “to
Gardiners,” and the lone beacon tower of “Old Montaukett,” one continuous
ground of thrilling lore and bold adventure. In her waters the “Fire
ship” glared amid the darkness, her phantom crew, like red hot statues,
standing at their quarters, as rushing onwards, in the furious storm,
she passed the shuddering mariner, leaving, comet like, long streams of
flame behind. Beneath her sands the red-shirted bucaneers did hide their
ill-gotten, blood-bespotted treasure. Ay! and ’twas on her broad bosom
that, with iron-seared conscience sailed that pirate, fierce and bold,
old Robert Kidd; and to this very day his golden hoards, with magic mark
and sign, still crowd her wooded shores.
Hah! ha! how, were he waking, old Scipio’s eyes would upward roll
their whites, if he did but hear that name so dread and grim. If, from
very eagerness, he could utter forth his words, he would give whole
chapters—ay—one from his own family history—for Kidd’s men caught old
Cudjoe, his great ancestor, clamming on the beach off Sasco, and without
more ado carried him aboard. As the old negro was sulky, they tumbled
his well-filled basket into the galley’s tank, and incontinently were
about to run him up to dangle at their long yard-arm, when Kidd, who
was taking his morning “drink of tobacco” on his poop, roared out,
in voice of thunder, “Ho! Scroggs—boatswain—dost hang a black-a-moor
at my yard-arm, where so many gentlemen have danced on nothing?—In
the foul devil’s name, scuttle the goggled-eyed fiend to the sharks
overboard,”—and overboard he went, but diving like a duck, he escaped
their firelocks’ quick discharge, and reached the shore in safety.
Ay! and his deep buried treasures! Where went the gold dust from the
coast of Guinea?—the gems from Madagascar?—where the dollars and
doubloons pirated from the Spanish galleons?—the broken plate and
crucifixes from the shores of Panama?—and where the good yellow gold,
stamped with the visage of his most gracious majesty?—where! where, but
on the haunted borders of this very Sound. Why, the very school-boys,
playing in the woods upon its shores, know when the earth doth hollow
sound beneath their feet, that Kidd’s treasure’s buried there. Do they
disturb it? No—not they—they know too well the fierce and restless spirit
that guards the iron pot. Didst ever hear the brave old ballad—“_As
he sail’d, as he sail’d?_” It’s a glorious old ballad—it’s a true old
ballad—and a time-honoured old ballad—it gives his veritable history. It
has been printed in black letter, and sung time out of mind. It has been
chanted by the old tars in sultry calms of the tropics, and the greasy
whalers have kept time to it over their trying kettles on the smooth
Pacific. It has been sung amid the icebergs of Greenland, and heard on
the coast of New Holland; the spicy breezes of Ceylon have borne it among
the sleeping tigers in their jungles, and the Hottentots have pulled
tighter their breech-cloths as they have listened to its tones. The
Chinese, and the Turks, and the Dutchmen, and the Danes, and every thing
human within the smell of salt water, have heard it,—ay! and that too in
the rich manly tones of the English and American sailors. Ho! Scip!—wake
from out thy corner, and give us the old ballad. Shades of red-capped
bucaneers!—fierce negro slavers!—spirits of the gallant men who fought
the British on her shores!—desperate old Kidd in person!—we conjure
you—we conjure you—arise and hover around us, whilst we chaunt the lay.
Ho! Scipio!—the old ballad, as it stood smoke-blacked, and grimed upon
thy cabin’s walls—ay! that is it—and in tones which chimed well in unison
with the dreary storm and howling blast without.
“YE LAMENTABLE BALLAD, AND YE TRUE HISTORIE OF CAPTAINE ROBERT KIDD, WHO
WAS HANGED IN CHAINS AT EXECUTION DOCK, FOR PIRACY AND MURDER ON YE HIGH
SEAS.”
[Sidenote: He calleth upon the captains:]
You captains bold and brave, hear our cries, hear our cries,
You captains bold and brave, hear our cries,
You captains brave and bold, tho’ you seem uncontroll’d,
Don’t for the sake of gold lose your souls, lose your souls,
Don’t for the sake of gold lose your souls.
[Sidenote: He stateth his name and acknowledgeth his wickedness:]
My name was Robert Kidd, when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
My name was Robert Kidd, when I sail’d,
My name was Robert Kidd, God’s laws I did forbid,
And so wickedly I did, when I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He beareth witness to the good counsel of his parents:]
My parents taught me well, when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
My parents taught me well, when I sail’d,
My parents taught me well to shun the gates of hell,
But against them I rebell’d when I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He curseth his father and his mother dear:]
I cursed my father dear, when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
I cursed my father dear, when I sail’d,
I cursed my father dear and her that did me bear,
And so wickedly did swear, when I sail’d.
[Sidenote: And blasphemeth against God:]
I made a solemn vow when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
I made a solemn vow when I sail’d,
I made a solemn vow, to God I would not bow,
Nor myself one prayer allow, as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He burieth the Good Book in sand:]
I’d a Bible in my hand when I sail’d, when I sail’d,
I’d a Bible in my hand when I sail’d,
I’d a Bible in my hand by my father’s great command,
And I sunk it in the sand, when I sail’d.
[Sidenote: And murdereth William Moore:]
I murdered William Moore, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I murdered William Moore, as I sail’d,
I murdered William Moore, and left him in his gore,
Not many leagues from shore as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: And also cruelly killeth the gunner.]
And being cruel still, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
And being cruel still, as I sail’d,
And being cruel still, my gunner I did kill,
And his precious blood did spill, as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: His mate, being about to die, repenteth and warneth him in his
career.]
My mate was sick and died as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
My mate was sick and died as I sail’d,
My mate was sick and died, which me much terrified,
When he called me to his bedside as I sail’d.
And unto me he did say, see me die, see me die,
And unto me did say see me die,
And unto me did say, take warning now by me,
There comes a reckoning day, you must die.
You cannot then withstand, when you die, when you die,
You cannot then withstand when you die,
You cannot then withstand the judgments of God’s hand,
But bound then in iron bands, you must die.
[Sidenote: He falleth sick, and promiseth repentance, but forgetteth his
vows.]
I was sick and nigh to death, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I was sick and nigh to death as I sail’d,
And I was sick and nigh to death, and I vowed at every breath
To walk in wisdom’s ways as I sail’d.
I thought I was undone as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I thought I was undone as I sail’d,
I thought I was undone and my wicked glass had run,
But health did soon return as I sail’d.
My repentance lasted not, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
My repentance lasted not, as I sail’d,
My repentance lasted not, my vows I soon forgot,
Damnation’s my just lot, as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He steereth thro’ _Long Island_ and other Sounds.]
I steer’d from Sound to Sound, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I steer’d from Sound to Sound, as I sail’d,
I steer’d from Sound to Sound, and many ships I found
And most of them I burn’d as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He chaseth three ships of France.]
I spy’d three ships from France, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships from France, as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships from France, to them I did advance,
And took them all by chance, as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: And also three ships of Spain.]
I spy’d three ships of Spain, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships of Spain as I sail’d,
I spy’d three ships of Spain, I fired on them amain,
Till most of them were slain, as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He boasteth of his treasure.]
I’d ninety bars of gold, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
I’d ninety bars of gold, as I sail’d,
I’d ninety bars of gold, and dollars manifold,
With riches uncontroll’d, as I sail’d.
[Sidenote: He spyeth fourteen ships in pursuit, and surrendereth.]
Then fourteen ships I saw, as I sail’d, as I sail’d,
Then fourteen ships I saw as I sail’d,
Then fourteen ships I saw and brave men they are,
Ah! they were too much for me as I sail’d.
Thus being o’ertaken at last, I must die, I must die,
Thus being o’ertaken at last, I must die,
Thus being o’ertaken at last, and into prison cast,
And sentence being pass’d, I must die.
[Sidenote: He biddeth farewell to the seas, and the raging main.]
Farewell the raging sea, I must die, I must die,
Farewell the raging main, I must die,
Farewell the raging main, to Turkey, France, and Spain,
I ne’er shall see you again, I must die.
[Sidenote: He exhorteth the young and old to take counsel from his fate:]
To Newgate now I’m cast, and must die, and must die,
To Newgate now I’m cast, and must die,
To Newgate I am cast, with a sad and heavy heart,
To receive my just desert, I must die.
To Execution Dock I must go, I must go,
To Execution Dock I must go,
To Execution Dock will many thousands flock,
But I must bear the shock, I must die.
Come all you young and old, see me die, see me die,
Come all young and old, see me die,
Come all you young and old, you’re welcome to my gold,
For by it I’ve lost my soul, and must die.
[Sidenote: And declareth that he must go to hell, and be punished for his
wickedness.]
Take warning now by me, for I must die, for I must die,
Take warning now by me, for I must die,
Take warning now by me, and shun bad company,
Lest you come to hell with me, for I must die,
Lest you come to hell with me, for I must die.
GREEN-WOOD CEMETERY.
[To the untiring exertions of Major D. B. Douglass, Messrs.
Joseph A. Perry, Henry E. Pierrepont, Gerrit G. Van Wagenen,
and a few other liberal minded gentlemen, the public are
indebted for the design and completion of this beautiful place
of repose for the dead. It is anticipated that ten miles of
avenue will be completed during the coming summer, and when the
whole is laid out, according to the proposed plan, that there
will be fifteen miles of picturesque road within its precincts.
Part of the battle of Long Island in the Revolution was fought
upon its grounds, and it is intended at no distant day, to
remove the remains of those that perished in the Prison Ships
to the Cemetery, where they will sleep undisturbed beneath an
appropriate monument. The views from Mount Washington, and
other eminences, within its precincts, embrace the entire
bay and harbour of New-York, with their islands and forts:
the cities of New-York and Brooklyn; the shores of the North
and East Rivers; New-Jersey, Staten Island, the Quarantine;
unnumbered towns and villages sprinkled over the wide expanse
of the surrounding country, and the margin of the broad
Atlantic, from Sandy Hook, to a distance far beyond the
Rockaway Pavilion. The fine old forest which covers the greater
part of the grounds, shrouding and almost concealing from
sight, several beautiful lakes and sheets of water suggested
the name, with which it has been consecrated, the Green-Wood
Cemetery.]
WHERE, THEN, IS DEATH!—and my own voice startled me from my reverie
as, leaning on my saddle-bow on the summit of Mount Washington in the
Greenwood Cemetery, I asked—_Where, then, is death!_ The golden sun of a
delicious summer’s afternoon was streaming o’er the undulating hills of
Staten Island lighting more brilliantly the snow-white villas and emerald
lawns:—the Lazaretto—its fleet gay with the flags of all the nations, was
nestling like a fairy city at its feet:—the noble bay before me was one
great polished mirror—motionless vessels with white sails and drooping
pennants, resting on its surface, like souls upon the ocean of Eternity,
and every thing around was bright and still and beautiful as I asked
myself the question—_Where, then, is death!_
The islands with their military works lay calm and motionless upon
the waters—the grim artillery, like sleeping tigers crouched upon the
ramparts and the castle’s walls—but the glistening of the sentry’s
polished musket, and the sudden clamorous roll of drums showed me,
that—_not there was death_.
I turned.—The great fierce city extending as far as eye could reach—the
sky fretted with her turrets and her spires—her thousand smokes rising
and mingling with the o’erhanging-clouds;—as she rose above her bed of
waters, with hoarse continuous roar, cried to me—“_Look not here, not
here—for death!_” Her sister city, with her towers and cupolas—her grassy
esplanades surmounted with verdant trees and far extending colonnades
embowered in shrubbery,—from her high terraced walls, re-echoed the
hollow roar—“_Not here for death!_”
The island lay extended far before me—its farms and towns—its modest
spires—its granaries—its verdant meadows—its rich cultivated fields—its
woods—its lawns—all wrapped in silence, but still its whisper softly
reached me—“_Not here—not here—is death!_”—E’en the great distant
ocean, closed only from my view by the far-reaching horizon, in sullen
continuous murmurs moaned—“_Not here is death!_”
Where, then, I cried—_where, then, is death?_ I looked above me, and the
blue vault hung pure and motionless—light fleecy clouds like angels on
their journeys, alone resting on its cerulean tint,—around, the evening
breeze played calm and gently,—and beneath the flowers and leaves were
quivering with delight, while the incessant hum of insect life, arising
from the earth with ceaseless voice, still cried—“_No—no—not here is
death!_”
Ah! said I, this beautiful world shall be forever, and there is—there
is no death—but even as I spoke, a warning voice struck with deep
solemnity upon my startled ear,—“Man that is born of woman, hath but a
short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down
like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in
one stay.”—And as I turned, the funeral procession—its minister and its
mourners passed onward in their journey with the silent dead.
I looked after the retiring group, and again from beyond the coppice
which intervened, heard rising in the same deep solemn tones,—“Write,
from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith
the spirit, for they rest from their labours,”—and my soul cowered within
itself like a guilty thing, as it said—Amen.
I looked again upon the scene before me and sighed,—e’en such is human
reason. That gorgeous sun shall set—the gay villas and verdant lawns,—the
crowded shipping,—the beautiful bay with all that rest upon its bosom,
shall soon be wrapt in darkness,—the gleaming watch-light disappear from
yon tall battlement, as the bugle sounds its warning note,—the great
fierce city be stilled in silence, while the beating hearts within her
midnight shroud, like seconds, answer her tolling bells upon the dial of
eternity,—and the insect myriads—the flowers and leaves—ay!—the great
heavens themselves, shall from the darkness cry—“_This is the portraiture
of death!_”—for the darkness and the silence are all that man can realize
of death.
The hardy Northman with trembling finger points to the mouldering frame
work of humanity, and shudders as he cries—“_Lo! there is death!_”—and
the polished Greek smiles delightedly on the faultless statue of
the lovely woman with the infant sleeping on her breast, as he also
cries—“_Lo! there is death!_”—yet both alike with reverence do lay their
final offering before his gloomy shrine.—The squalid Esquimaux scoops
out the cavern in the never melting snows, for the frozen form whose
conflicts with the grizzly bear and shuddering cold are done—and the
mild Hindoo, with affection, feeds the funeral pyre, and as the fragrant
column does arise, cries—“Soul of my brother—immortal soul, ascend!”—The
red man, in the far distant prairie’s lonely wilds, pillows the head of
the warrior-chief upon his slain desert steed within its mound, while the
bronzed pioneer, throwing aside his axe and rifle, hastily dashes away
the tear as he inhumes beneath its flowery bed his scar-marked comrade’s
form.
The secluded village hamlet, with pious care, within the quiet grove,
encloses a resting-place for its silent few, disappearing at long
intervals;—and here those great living cities have chosen this silent
city for their dead, falling like the forest leaves in autumn.
For the great army, who must ere long, march forth to ground their arms
before the grim and ghastly Conqueror, ’twere difficult to find more
beautiful and lovely resting place. E’en the sad mourner lingers as
he beholds its broad and lovely lawns, stretched out in calm serenity
before him;—its sylvan waters in their glassy stillness; its antique
elms, arching with extended branches the long secluded lanes; its deep
romantic glens; its rolling mounds, and all its varied scenery, ere with
a softened sadness he turns him to his desolate and melancholy home. Oh!
spirits of our departed ones! We know that you have gone forth from your
human habitations, and that we shall behold your loved forms no more
forever. Oh! therefore will we lay your deserted temples within this
consecrated ground, and, in imagination, fondly see you sleeping still in
tranquillity beneath its green and silent sward.
But lo! where upon the broad and verdant lawn, the loose clods and dark
black mould heaped carelessly aside, the narrow pit awaits, ere it
close again from light, its tenant in his dark and narrow house. The
sorrowing group collect around, and the pall slowly drawn aside, one
moment more exhibits to the loved ones, the pallid countenance of him
about to be hidden from their sight forever. The weeping widow, in her
dark habiliments, leans upon the arm of the stern, sad brother, her
little ones clinging to her raiment in mingled awe and admiration of
the scene before them. “Ashes to ashes”—how she writhes in anguish, as
the heavy clods fall with hollow unpitying jar upon the coffin lid—how
like a lifeless thing she hangs upon the supporting arm in which her
countenance is buried in agony unutterable; and see the little ones,
their faces streaming with wondering tears, clasping her hands; how in
happy ignorance, they innocently, with fond endearing names, still call
upon him to arise.
But the narrow grave is filled—the mourning group have gone—the
evening shadows fall—the declining sun sinks beneath his gorgeous
bed in the horizon, and in the thickening twilight, the dead lies in
his mound—alone. The night advances—the stars arise, and the joyous
constellations roll high onward in their majestic journeys in the
o’erhanging heavens—but beneath—the tenant of the fresh filled grave,
lies motionless and still. The morning sun appears, the dew, like
diamonds, glitters on every leaf and blade of grass—the birds joyously
carol, and the merry lark, upon the very mound itself, sends forth his
cheerful note—but all is hushed, in silence, to the tenant who in his
unbroken slumber sleeps within. The Autumn comes, and the falling leaves
whirl withered from the tree tops, and rustle in the wind—the Winter,
and the smooth broad plain lies covered with its pure and spotless cloak
of driven snow, and the lowly mound is hid from sight, and shows not, in
the broad midday sun, nor e’en at midnight, when the silver moon sailing
onwards in her chaste journey turns the icicles into glittering gems,
on the o’erhanging branches as they bend protectingly towards it. The
Spring breathes warmly, and the little mound lies green again—and now
the mother bending o’er it, lifts the rose and twines the myrtle, while
the little ones in joyous glee from the surrounding meadows, bring the
wild flowers and scatter them in unison upon its borders. Oh! then!—were
consciousness within—then would the glad tenant smile.
But let him, whose tears as yet fall not for any dear one beneath its
sod, ascend again with me the Mount, and with retrospective gaze behold
the living drama, which has passed before it. The great world around—the
stage—lies still the same; but the actors, all—all have passed onwards to
their final rest. Into the still gleaming past bend your attentive gaze.
Lo, the features of the scenery are still the same—the bay’s unruffled
bosom, and the islands; but no sail now floats upon its surface, no
gilded spires in the distance loom, nor does the busy hum of man reach
us, as listening we stand—nought we see but the far forest covering
the main and islands, even to the waters. The coward wolf howls in yon
distant glen—the partridge drums upon the tree tops—and the graceful deer
e’en at our sides browses in conscious safety. Yon light dot moving upon
the water?—’tis the painted Indian paddling his canoe. Yon smoke curling
on the shore beneath us?—it is the Indian’s wigwam—The joyous laugh
arising among the trees? It is his squaw and black-eyed children—the
Indian reigns the lord—reigns free and uncontrolled.
But look again upon the waters floats a huge and clumsy galliot—its
gay and gaudy streamers flaunting in the breeze; how the poor savages
congregated on yonder point, gaze in wonder as it passes—’tis the Great
Spirit, and the quaint figure with the plumed hat, and scarlet hose
glistening with countless buttons, on its poop—some demi-god!—and as she
onward moves, behold the weather-worn seamen’s faces in her rigging, how
anxiously they return the gaze.—The forest children muster courage—they
follow in their light canoes.—The galliot nears the Manahattoes—they
ascend her sides—hawks, bells and rings, and beads, and the hot strong
drink are theirs;—their land—it is the white man’s.—See with what
confidence he ensconces himself upon the island’s borders—in his grasp,
he has the fish—the furs—the game—the poor confiding Indian gives him
all—and—behold the embryo city’s fixed!
But see!—Is that the Dutch boor’s cabin at our feet?—Is that the
Indian seated on the threshold, while the Dutchman lolls lazily
within!—Where—where then is the Indian’s wigwam?—gone!
Look up again—a stately fleet moves o’er the bay, in line of battle
drawn; the military music loudly sounds—dark cannon frown from within
the gaping ports, and crews with lighted matches stand prepared—they
near the Manahattoes, and—and—the Orange flag descends—the Dragon and
St. George floats from the flag-staff o’er the little town. Who is the
fair-haired man that drinks with the Dutchman at his cottage door, while
the poor Indian stands submissively aside?—“It is the Briton.”—I hear
the laugh of youth—sure ’tis the Indian’s black eyed brood?—“’Tis the
Englishman’s yellow haired, blue eyed children.”—Alas! alas! poor forest
wanderer—nor squaw—nor child—nor wigwam, shall here be more for thee.
Farewell—farewell.
The little town swells to a goodly city—the forests fall around—the
farms stretch out their borders—wains creak and groan with harvest
wealth—lordly shipping floats on the rivers—the fair haired race
increase—roads mark the country—and the deer and game, scared, fly the
haunts of men.—Hah!—the same flag floats not at the Manahattoes!—now,
’tis Stars and Stripes—See!—crowding across the river men in dark
masses—cannon—muniments of war—in boats—on rafts—in desperate haste.
Trenches and ramparts creep like serpents on the earth—horsemen scour the
country—divisions—regiments—take position, and stalwart yeomen hurrying
forward, join in the ranks of Liberty!—Hear! hear the wild confusion—the
jar of wheels—the harsh shrill shriek of trumpets and the incessant roll
of drums—the rattling musketry—the sudden blaze and boom of cannon—it
is the roar of battle—it is the battle field!—Hear! hear the distant
cry—“St. George and merry England.”—“Our Country and Liberty.”—Ah! o’er
this very ground, the conflict passes—See! the vengeful Briton prostrate
falls beneath the deadly rifle—while the yeomen masses fade beneath the
howling cannon shot—and hark! how from amid the sulphurous cloud the
wild “hurrah” drowns e’en the dread artillery.
The smoke clouds lazily creep from off the surface—the battle’s o’er and
the red-cross banner floats again upon the island of Manahattoes.—And now
again—the Stripes and Stars stream gently in the breeze.