Fifteen miles northeast of Montauk Point, out in the ocean, is Block
Island, lying midway between the extremity of Long Island and Point
Judith, on the western side of the entrance to Narragansett Bay. It is
about eight miles long, with a prominent white light for a beacon on
each end, north and south, and is a curious isolated place amid the
rolling waves of the Atlantic. Its balmy climate and equable
temperature have made it a favorite summer resort, being popularly
called the "Bermuda of the North," while some of its admirers say it
is destined to become the American Isle of Wight. It was known to the
Indians as Manisees, the "Isle of the Little God," and when the whites
first came, its aboriginal people were great wampum makers. The
Puritans campaigned on the island, defeating the Indians, and in 1638
they sent sixty feet of wampum to Boston for tribute, but the English
did not permanently settle there till 1661. It is an elongated island,
with high bold shores, abrupt hills, narrow valleys and sundry ponds,
one, the "Great Salt Pond," near its centre, being of considerable
size. The surface, however, is entirely destitute of trees, and the
only harbor is behind the protecting refuge of a breakwater, built
some time ago by the Government. As the ocean waves are always
buffeting and washing away the shores, its ultimate total
disappearance is predicted, but this impending fate is said not to
seriously alarm the inhabitants, who are, by the way, almost all
Baptists. Until recently, so little was actually known of these Block
Island folk, who were nearly all born there, and relatives, that a
strong belief was prevalent on the adjacent mainland that the genuine
native Block Islanders had only one eye apiece. They are strange and
antiquated, and many of the old people have never been off the island.
Some of them recall as a wonderful journey taken years ago, in early
youth, how they ventured so far away from home as to sail "across to
the Continent," as they call the remainder of the United States. They
gather sea-weed, which brings them quite a revenue, and dig peat,
which is largely used for fuel. Their little stone-walled fields,
ancient windmills and lily-strewn ponds are picturesque, and their
ancestors are buried in the ancient burying-ground, which visitors
find interesting, and then climb Beacon Hill to get a view that is
unique in being an almost complete circle of the sea. This attractive
place, swept by ocean breezes, is the eastern outpost of Long Island,
and no better idea of it has ever been given than by Whittier's poem
on the Palatine wreck, opening by describing Block Island:
"Leagues north, as fly the gull and auk,
Point Judith watches with eye of hawk;
Leagues south, thy beacon flames, Montauk!
"Lonely and wind-shorn, wood-forsaken,
With never a tree for Spring to waken,
For tryst of lovers or farewells taken,
"Circled by waters that never freeze,
Beaten by billow and swept by breeze,
Lieth the island of Manisees,
"Set at the mouth of the Sound to hold
The coast lights up on its turret old,
Yellow with moss and sea-fog mould.
"Dreary the land when gust and sleet
At its doors and windows howl and beat,
And Winter laughs at its fires of peat!
"But in summer-time, when pool and pond,
Held in the laps of valleys fond,
Are blue as the glimpses of sea beyond;
"When the hills are sweet with brier-rose,
And, hid in the warm, soft dells, unclose
Flowers the mainland rarely knows;
"When boats to their morning fishing go,
And, held to the wind and slanting low,
Whitening and darkening, the small sails show,--
"Then is that lonely island fair;
And the pale health-seeker findeth there
The wine of life in its pleasant air.
"No greener valleys the sun invite,
On smoother beaches no sea-birds light,
No blue waves shatter to foam more white!"