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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.

THE WRECKER’S OATH ON BARNEGAT.

One night mid swarthy forms I lay,

Along a wild southeastern bay,

Within a cabin rude and rough,

Formed out of drift-wood, wrecker’s stuff,

And firelight throwing rosy flame

From up-heaped masses of the same,—

Waiting the turning of the tide

To launch the surf-boats scattered wide,

And try the fisher’s hardy toil

For bass, and other finny spoil.

One gray old man, of whom I heard

No more than this descriptive word,

“Old Kennedy,”—he rattled on,

Of men and things long past and gone,

And seemed without one careful thought,—

Till spark to tinder some one brought

By hinting that he launched no more,

Of late, his surf-boat from the shore,

However wind and storm were rife

And stranded vessels perilled life.

“No! by the God who made this tongue!”

And up in angry force he sprung,—

“No!—never, while my head is warm,

However wild beat sea and storm,

Launch I a boat, one life to save,

If half creation finds a grave!”

A fearful oath!—I thought; and so

Thought others, for a murmur low

Ran round the circle, till at length

The wondering feeling gathered strength,

And some, who had not known him long,

Declared them words of cruel wrong,

And swore to keep no friendly troth

With one who framed so hard an oath.

“You will not, mates?” the old man said,

His words so earnest, dense, and dread

That something down my back ran cold

As at the ghostly tales of old.

“You will not? Listen, then, a word!

And if, when you have fairly heard,

You say a thoughtless oath I swore,

I never fish beside you more!

“You know me, mates,—at least the most,—

From Barnegat, on Jersey coast.

’Tis time you listened something more,

That drove me to another shore.

“Twelve years ago, at noon of life,

I had a fond and faithful wife;

Two children,—boy and girl; a patch;

A drift-wood cabin roofed with thatch;

And thought myself the happiest man

The coast had known since time began.

“One night a large ship drove ashore

Not half a mile beyond my door.

I saw the white surf breaking far;

I saw her beating on the bar;

I knew she could not live one hour

By wood and iron’s strongest power.

“I was alone, except my boy,—

Sixteen,—my wife’s best hope and joy;

And who can doubt, that is not mad,

He was the proudest pride I had!

I let him take the vacant oar;

I took him with me from the shore;

I let him try help save a life:

I drowned him,—and it killed my wife!

“Somebody stole a cask or bale,

At least so ran the pleasant tale.

And while my boy was lying dead,

My wife’s last breath as yet unfled,

The city papers reeked with chat

Of ‘pirate bands on Barnegat.’

My name was branded as a thief,

When I was almost mad with grief;

And what d’ye think they made me feel,

When the last falsehood ground its heel,—

‘I had rowed out, that night, to steal!’

“No! if I ever row again

To save the lives of perilled men,

Body and soul at once go down,

And Heaven forget me as I drown!”

Henry Morford.