# Scenes in my Native Land/Autumn on Staten Island

AUTUMN ON STATEN ISLAND.
The autumnal breeze was sharp, when first I sought
 Thy friendship, sweetest Island of the main,
Yet still in sunny nooks, with verdure fraught,
 Wore lingering flowers of summer's blissful reign,
Whose grateful fragrance cheered the faded plain,  And sheltered knoll, that seemed the Frost to fear;
For that invader, with his fatal train,
 Had touched the aspiring boughs with umber sere, And, stern and cold, announced the funeral of the year.
Yes; that prophetic flush, so strange and brief,
 Which, like the hectic, shows the Spoiler nigh,
Hung here and there, upon the forest leaf,
 And tinged the maple with a blood-red die,
While through the groves there came a mournful sigh
 Of hollow winds, bewailing Nature's doom;
But still the brightness of the unclouded sky
 Did with its spirit-glance reprove the gloom,
Like that immortal Faith which shrinks not at the tomb.
But thou, blest Isle, when verdant seasons die,
 Hast many a charm, which change can ne'er impair,
And all that meets the mirror of thine eye
 Seems softened like a dream. For thee, with care,
The great, proud City, beaming smiles doth wear,
 And shroud in distance, every darkened trace,
Which penury, or pain, or guilt doth bear,
 And, like a lover, show its fairest face,
Lifting its mighty head in majesty and grace.
So I have throned thee in mine inmost heart,  Fair Daughter of the Sea, around whose breast
The sparkling waters meet, and never part,  But tuneful sing thee to thy nightly rest;
Or if, by wintry blast and storm opprest,
 Fierce at thy feet the surging billows roll, Thou, in serenity and glory drest,  Dost still the madness of their mood control, And strong in beauty's power, disarm the wrathful soul.
The suburbs of the City of New York present an unusual variety of romantic scenery, easily accessible to its inhabitants; and that which Stateu Island exhibits is not among the least diversified or imposing. Indeed, it is a most fascinating and delightful spot, fanned by the purest breezes from the sea.
The fine residences of New Brighton give its shore the splendid appearance of a city, while from its cliffs, ​three hundred feet in height, the views of earth and ocean are truly magnificent. Its peculiar features have caused it frequently to be compared to the Isle of Wight, though inferior in wildness and grandeur.
A powerful pencil would be tasked to describe its diversified prospects, for instance from the Telegraph Station, the Quarantine, the Clove, or the deserted Fort Tompkins, whose outline and walls might almost cause it to pass for a modern Colliseum. New York, with its dense masses of architecture, and the shores of Long Island, exuberant in fertility, add their contrast of beauty, while the peninsular coast of New Jersey approaches as if to seek the embrace of its beautiful neighbor.
A short stay on Staten Island, in the autumn of 1843, gave a greater degree of familiarity with its scenery, than is usually acquired in a first visit, through the kind attentions of hospitable friends, who every day exhibited to us some new department of their region of beauty. In traversing it, you find interspersed among humble cottages, in the cultured vale, lofty hills, crowned by graceful mansions, and here and there a low-browed church, claiming reverence both from its sacredness and its antiquity.
The entrance to the town of Richmond, from the green hills that enclose it, as in a cup, descending which, you look down upon winding streams, green vallies, and quiet habitations,—is very beautiful. The perpetual gliding of sails, and the rapid movement of steamers, brilliant with their evening lights, give to the ​prospect of the surrounding sea continual variety and interest. The Narrows, that watery pathway, through which the voyager to distant climes passes, his heart broken with the tender farewells of beloved ones, and by which he returns, in joy unutterable, every thought filled to overflowing with the imagery of home and native land, can never be viewed with indifference by those who have felt these emotions. It was a pleasant thing, from a commanding height, to see the Great Western, a dark, gigantic mass, go forth on her ocean pilgrimage, trying her powers of speed with a small steamer, which, at their disappearance on the misty horizon, had the advantage of her Goliah competitor.
An institution on Staten Island for the relief of seamen attracts the attention of strangers, and I borrow a description of it from the pen of Mrs. L. M. Child, agreeable and forcible.
"One of the most interesting places on this island is the Sailor's Snug Harbor. A few years ago, a gentleman, by the name of Randall, left a small farm that rented for two or three hundred dollars, at the corner of Eleventh Street and Broadway, for the benefit of old and wornout sailors. This property increased in value, until it enabled the trustees to purchase a farm on Staten Island, and erect a noble stone edifice, as a hospital for disabled seamen; with an annual income of nearly 30,000 dollars. The building has a very handsome exterior, and is large, airy, and convenient. ​The front door opens into a spacious hall, at the extremity of which flowers and evergreens are arranged one above another, like the terrace of a conservatory; and from the entries above you look down into this pretty work of 'greenery.' The whole aspect of things is extremely pleasant, with the exception of the sailors themselves. They reminded me of what some one said of the Greenwich pensioners, 'They seem to be waiting for death!' No outward comfort seemed wanting; but they stood alone in the world, no wives, no children. Connected by no link with the ever active Present, a monotonous Future stretched before them, made more dreary by its contrast with the keen excitement and ever-shifting variety of their past life of peril and pleasure. I have always thought too little provision was made for this lassitude of the mind, in most benevolent institutions. Men, accustomed to excitement, cannot do altogether without it. It is a necessity of nature, and should be ministered to in all innocent forms. Those poor old tars should have sea-songs, and instrumental music, once in a while, to stir their sluggish blood, and a feast might be given on great occasions, to younger sailors, from temperance boarding-houses, that the Past might have a chance to hear from the Present. We perform but a half charity when we comfort the body and leave the soul desolate."
"The sailor cannot be ignorant, without being superstitious too. The Infinite comes continually before him, in the sublimest symbols of sight and sound. ​He does not know the language, but he feels the tone. Goethe has told us, in most beautiful allegory, of two bridges, whereby earnest souls pass from the Finite to the Infinite. One is a rainbow, which spans the dark river, and this is Faith; the other is a shadow cast quite over by the giant Superstition, when he stands between the setting sun and the unknown shore.
"Blessings on all friendly hands that are leading the sailor to the rainbow bridge. His spirit is made reverential in the great temple of Nature, resounding with the wild voices of the winds, and strange music of the storm-organ; too long has it been left trembling and shivering on the bridge of shadows. For him, too, the rainbow spans the dark stream, and becomes at last a bridge of gems."