MONTAUK POINT.
It was a summer's day, when old Montauk
First gleamed upon us. Many a mile we drove
Over a treeless region, hill and dale
Wrapped in a short, green sward.
There, grazed at will,
Herds of young cattle, by no fence restrained,
And limitless in their equality,
As a Laconian brotherhood. Quite lean
They were, and agile, and with goat-like nerve
Could scour o'er paths precipitous—yet each
Bent on our vehicles a curious eye,
Pausing and pondering, as if much inclined
Our destination and our names to learn.
'T was strange in such wild solitudes to be
So questioned by those quadrupeds. Perchance,
Some Yankee pedigree they might have held,
In old time far away; for all, methought,
Thirsted to ask our birth-place, and degree,
Date, history, kindred, gains, and hopes, and fears,
And prospects and pursuits.
Right scanty fare
Had doubtless kept their minds more clear, and lent
A rarer sprinkling of intelligence
Than our sleek herds, who plunge in clover deep,
Ever attain. Yet still, 't was passing strange
Such intellectual intercourse to hold
With horned creatures, and behold them there
Amenable to none. For house, or home,
Or farm-yard, where some tinkling bell might call
Those roaming vassals to their rightful lord,
Though searching close, we saw not.
No frail hut,
Or slight canoe of the poor red-browed tribes,
So numerous once, on their own soil remained.
The white man's flocks and herds outnumbered them,
And took their lands.
Still, as we passed along,
On our right hand the glorious Ocean rolled,
With its long-terraced, thunder-uttering waves,
While on our left, spread out that sheltered sea
Which laves the green shores of my native State,
Approaching gently, with its whispered tides,
Subdued and docile, as a child at school.
The contrast pleased us well, as on we prest
To the sharp verge of that promontory
Where Sea and Ocean meet. And there, we climbed
To the hill-planted light-house, and beheld
The confluence of waters. Studded o'er
The near expanse, the fishing vessels lay,
Each fixed and still, as 'mid a sea of glass;
While on the far horizon, many a sail
Loomed up conspicuous, as the western sun
Involved himself in clouds.
One house there was,
Where the light-keeper and his family
Dwelt, sole inhabitants, but yet not sad
In that lone place. Young children brought them love,
That other name for happiness, and they
Who dwell in love, do taste on earth, of heaven.
Beneath that peaceful, lowly roof, we found
Order and neatness, and such table spread
As might the wearied traveller well content;
Though all night long, the melancholy main
Held conflict with the rocks.
Returning morn
Saw us explorers of the sterile coast,
Shell-gatherers and wave-watchers, oft-times lost
In that long trance of meditation sweet,
Which on the borders of the solemn deep
Best visiteth the soul.
And then we turned,
Our way retracing, to that southern point
Where our brief summer-residence we held,
Amid such draughts of ocean's bracing air,
And soothing habitudes of rural life,
So primitive, so simple, so serene,
That languid nerve, and wasted, drooping mind
Alike revivify.
But first, we bade
Farewell to Old Montauk, and gave thee thanks,
Ultima Thule of that noble Isle
Against whose breast the everlasting surge
Long travelling on, and ominous of wrath,
Incessant beats. Thou lift'st a blessed torch
Unto the vexed and storm-tossed mariner,
Guiding him safely on his course again;
So teach us mid our own dark ills to guard
The lamp of charity, and with clear eye
Look up to Heaven.
The peninsula of Montauk, on the eastern end of Long Island, is about nine miles in length, and from two to three in breadth, gradually narrowing until ends in a bold cliff upon which the light-house is situated. It is connected with the island by a neck of land called Nappeag Beach, which is but a waste of sand, thrown by the winds and waves into hillocks and ridges, and covered in some places with a scanty vegetation. Leaving this beach and entering upon the upland of the peninsula, we find an uneven surface, moulded into various fantastic forms, the base of which is sand, but which is covered with a soil that yields excellent grass for cattle. The land is, in fact, a vast common, belonging to the people of East Hampton; and here, during the summer, large herds and flocks are fed. There is perhaps no part of our country where the traveller will find such an extent of cleared land, without bounds or fences, or such herds of cattle promiscuously scattered over the hills and plains.
There are no woods or groves upon the peninsula, and but very few scattered trees. As you advance, however, it takes more of the granite formation, and of the aspect of New England; the stones become larger, and the rocks more angular, as if less beaten and washed by the ocean. There are but three or four families on the point, and their houses are miles apart, so that in the wintry season they must lead the lives of hermits. In summer many strangers resort hither, some to fish and hunt, some to breathe the invigorating sea-breeze, and not a few attracted by the solitary grandeur of the spot. Here you seem separated from the world, placed on a lone promontory jutting out into the great deep. On one side, the nearest land is Europe, and around you, filling all your senses and your whole soul, is the boundless ocean, with its thunder-surge breaking forever against the cliff on which you stand.
The dread uniformity of this scene is, however, enlivened by the multitude of sails that in a fine day pass within view, and by the proximity of Gardiner's and Fisher's Islands, and the southern shore of Rhode Island. These lie upon the northern horizon, and relieve the eye, fatigued with wandering over a world of waves, and the mind, oppressed with the loneliness and sublimity of the place.
This peninsula was formerly the residence of the Montauk tribe of Indians, who were nearly connected with the Mohekaneews or aborigines of New England. They had the same language, the same customs, the same proud and warlike spirit. Now they are almost extinct. A few individuals of mixed blood remain, who gain a livelihood by fishing, or are employed as servants by the farmers of the vicinity.
The light-house upon this point is a structure of the highest importance. Perhaps no land-mark in our country is more conspicuous, more valuable in a commercial point of view, or more necessary for the preservation of human life. Who can tell how many hearts have leaped at the sight of this beacon light!—how many storm-tossed mariners it has guided homeward:—
"Even as some hospitable man
Will light his going guest into the path,
And bid God bless him."
Oyster-Pond Point, the peninsula north of Montauk, extends about five miles, and is connected with the main island by a strip of sand-beach. Though diversified by masses of rock, it has a fine soil, and is highly cultivated. It possesses also excellent accommodations for visitors who desire the restorative effects of sea-air and food. One of the most curious objects that they find in this vicinity is an ancient cemetery, in a secluded and romantic situation. It is on an eminence, overshadowed by two higher elevations, and covered to its summit with graves. The dark blue slate stones, are mossy and mouldering with time. Some of the inscriptions are nearly two hundred years old, and most of them illegible. Such as can be decyphered, exhibit that singular combination of religious sentiment with quaint humor, which is prone to excite a smile. Here is a specimen of one, bearing no date.
"Here lyeth Elizabeth,
Once Samuel Beebee's wife,
Who once was made a living soul,
But now 's deprived of life;
Yet firmly she believed,
That at the Lord's return
She should be made a living soul,
In his own shape and form,
Lived four and thirty years a wife,
Died, aged 57,
Hath now laid down this mortal life.
In hopes to live in Heaven."
Clusters of islands add beauty to the little voyage to Oyster-Pond Point, from the Connecticut shore. Among these are Plumb Island, which formerly bore the sacred appellation of the Isle of Patmos; Shelter-Island, Great and Little Gull Island, whose foundations of solid rock scarcely resent the wasting effects of the waves; and Fisher's Island, containing about four thousand acres, which has been in possession of the Winthrop family ever since its purchase, in 1644, by John Winthrop, the first Governor of Connecticut.
Greenport, at Peconic Bay, between the promontories of Montauk and Oyster-Pond Point, is an exceedingly beautiful village. Its bright verdure, and the grace of its waving acacia shades, render the drives in its vicinity very agreeable to the lover of fine scenery, while its appearance of thriving industry is pleasant to the utilitarian.
At Sagg-Harbor, on the southern shore of the island, rural characteristics are merged in the features of a more populous and commercial settlement, and in the habits of an enterprising, active, and accumulating people; the whale-fishery being the substratum of their wealth.
The neighboring town of East Hampton is one of the most desirable spots in which an invalid can seek restoration. The bracing air of the ocean brings vigor to the nerves, while no prescribed etiquette, or aristocratic formality, impose that laborious attention to dress, which marks so many of our fashionable watering-places. The inhabitants are kind and social in their manners. The buildings are principally arranged on a single street of about a mile in length, and present a plain and antiquated appearance. The family of the late lamented Colonel David Gardiner, have here a pleasant country-seat, and their elegant hospitalities are remembered with gratitude by many strangers.
Both here and at the beach at Southampton, a southern wind brings in a magnificent show of waves, which a storm heightens to the terribly sublime. In this vicinity, are many varied and pleasant drives. The excursion to Montauk, which has been before mentioned, is most solitary and peculiar. No track or furrow from a previous wheel directs your course. The traveller depends wholly on his guide, the driver of one of those large, strong-bodied Long-Island vehicles, which are adapted to that precipitous region. Yet notwithstanding the apparent perils of the route, it is sometimes chosen as an equestrian excursion, even by young ladies, whose fair forms, in this graceful exercise, amid those wild solitudes, have a striking effect, and carry the mind back to the days of chivalry.
In speaking of East Hampton and the habitudes of its people, the late President Dwight said, emphatically: "A general air of equality, simplicity, and quiet is visible here in a degree perhaps singular. Sequestered in a great measure from the busy world, the people exhibit not the same activity and haste, which meet the eye in some other places. There is, however, no want of the social character, but it is regulated rather by the long continued customs of this single spot, than by the mutable fashions of a great city." Could any suffrage be needed, after such high authority, I would simply record my own hope, once more to be permitted to pass a part of some summer in this invigorating retreat, made pleasant by true-hearted kindness, and sublime by the great voice of the glorious Ocean.
Gardiner's Island is an appendage to East Hampton, from which it is distant ten miles. It was originally conveyed by deed, in 1639, to Lyon Gardiner, and has since continued, by lineal succession, in that family. It is connected by legendary lore, and buried treasures, with the tragical fortunes of William Kidd, the pirate, who was executed in 1701. It contains between three and four thousand acres of good soil, with a greater proportion of trees than the smaller islands can often boast. There always seems something attractive in insular life, especially with a pleasant summer residence, on a small domain, girdled by the sparkling sea. It would seem as if the world of thought, of nature, and of books, might be more entirely at your own control, and as if the voice of the deep-rolling main insured you against interruptions, or that fear of them, which often produces the same mental hindrance, as their actual occurrence. Still, it would be desirable not to be too far divided from the mainland, or of very difficult access, lest the romance of the locality should be put to flight by positive inconvenience, or a cloistered seclusion.
On the southern shore of Long Island is a bay, from two to five miles in width, formed by sand-beach and islands, and furnishing a remarkable inland navigation of between seventy and eighty miles. Tracts of salt-meadow, producing a luxuriant growth of grass, vary the surface of the intervening ridge; the waters are prolific in every variety of the testaceous and finny tribes, while innumerable wild-fowl allure and repay the sportsman.
Long Island has still many unexplored beauties to reward the attentive tourist. Stretching nearly 150 miles in length, having on its north a sheltered Mediterranean, and bared on the east and south to the rough smiting of the Atlantic surge, its shore, sometimes beautified with country-seats, and towering toward the west into the grandeur of rich and populous cities,—then failing back upon the isolated farm-house, and the whistling ploughboy, anon losing itself in sterile Arabian sands, and frightful cavernous solitudes, it would seem as if some regions of this noble and beautiful Isle contrasted as strangely with each other, as the first rude huts of the twin-brothers on the Palatine Hill, differed from the city of the Cæsars.