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ALMOST any land looks beautiful after a long voyage; and it would not
be surprising if the Narrows, oftenest seen and described by those who
have just come off the passage of the Atlantic, should have this
reputation. It does not require an eye long deprived of verdure,
however, to relish the bold shores, the bright green banks, the
clustering woods, and tasteful villas which make up the charms of this
lovely strait.
Busier waters than the Narrows could scarcely be found; and it is
difficult to imagine, amid so much bustle and civilization, the scene
that presented itself to Hendrick Hudson, when the little “Halve-Mane”
stole in on her voyage of discovery two hundred years ago. _Hoofden_, or
the Highlands, as he then named the hills in this neighborhood, “were
covered with grass and wild-flowers, and the air was filled with
fragrance.” Groups of friendly natives, clothed in elk-skins, stood on
the beach, singing and offering him welcome; and anchoring his little
bark, he explored with his boats the channel and inlets, and penetrated
to the mouth of the river which was destined to bear his name. It
appears, however, that the Indians on the Long Island side were less
friendly; and in one of the excursions into the Bay of Manhattan his
boat was attacked by a party of twenty-nine savages of a ferocious
tribe, and an English sailor, named Colman, was killed by an arrow-shot
in the shoulder. Other unfriendly demonstrations from the same tribe
induced Hudson to leave his anchorage at Sandy Hook, and he drew in to
the Bay of New York, which he found most safe and commodious, and where
he still continued his intercourse with the Indians of Staten Island,
receiving them on board his vessel, dressing them, to their extravagant
delight, in red coats, and purchasing from them fish and fruits in
abundance.
At this day there stands a villa on every picturesque point; a thriving
town lies on the left shore; hospitals and private sanitary
establishments extend their white edifices in the neighborhood of the
quarantine-ground; and between the little fleets of merchantmen, lying
with the yellow flag at their peak, fly rapidly and skilfully a constant
succession of steamboats, gaily painted and beautifully modelled,
bearing on their airy decks the population of one of the first cities of
the world. Yet of Manhattan Island, on which New York is built, Hudson
writes, only two hundred years ago, that “it was wild and rough; a thick
forest covered the parts where anything would grow; its beach was broken
and sandy, and full of inlets; its interior presented hills of stony and
sandy alluvion, masses of rock, ponds, swamps, and marshes.”
The gay description which an American would probably give of the
Narrows,—the first spot of his native land seen after a tedious
voyage,—would probably be in strong contrast with the impression it
produces on the emigrant, who sees in it only the scene of his first
difficult step in a land of exile. I remember noting this contrast with
some emotion, on board the packet-ship in which I was not long ago a
passenger from England. Among the crowd of emigrants in the steerage was
the family of a respectable and well-educated man, who had failed as a
merchant in some small town in England, and was coming, with the wreck
of his fortune, to try the backwoods of America. He had a wife and eight
or ten very fine children, the eldest of whom, a delicate and pretty
girl of eighteen, had contributed to sustain the family under their
misfortunes at home by keeping a village school. The confinement had
been too much for her, and she was struck with consumption,—a disease
which is peculiarly fatal in America. Soon after leaving the British
Channel, the physician on board reported her to the captain as
exceedingly ill, and suffering painfully from the close air of the
steerage; and by the general consent of the cabin passengers a bed was
made up for her in the deck-house, where she received the kindest
attention from the ladies on board; and with her gentle manners and
grateful expressions of pleasure soon made an interest in all hearts. As
we made the land, the air became very close and hot; and our patient,
perhaps from sympathy with the general excitement about her, grew
feverish and worse, hourly. Her father and a younger sister sat by her,
holding her hands and fanning her; and when we entered the Narrows with
a fair wind, and every one on board, forgetting her in their admiration
of the lovely scene, mounted to the upper deck, she was raised to the
window, and stood with the bright red spot deepening on her cheek,
watching the fresh green land without the slightest expression of
pleasure. We dropped anchor, the boats were lowered, and as the steerage
passengers were submitted to a quarantine, we attempted to take leave of
her before going on shore. A fit of the most passionate tears, the
paroxysms of which seemed almost to suffocate her, prevented her
replying to us; and we left that poor girl surrounded by her weeping
family, trying in vain to comfort her. Hers were feelings, probably,
which are often associated with a remembrance of the Narrows.
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