A melody that was
irresistible, and heeding not the threnody of the bell, we were
soon looking down in triumph at the broken array of restless
waters from the hollow crest of a great boulder.
>From this point the sea appears as a vast poem, "one of those
charming idyls in which no element of beauty or power is
lacking." From this rough pulpit of masonry we gazed at the
booming breakers rolling in with their crests of gleaming
silver, that were shattered to fragments immediately below us.
Their long sprays of phosphorescent blossoms vanished like stars
in the golden light of dawn. The sea was now bathed in a flood
of mellow light and its gradations of color revealed palest
amethyst along the horizon, while nearer it glowed with
brightest sapphire. In such a place and at such a time as this
you take no note of time. "Your soul is flooded with a sense of
such celestial beauty as you ne'er dreamed of before, and a
nameless inexpressible music enthralls you."
Here we saw forty destroyers in the harbor and two others
entering it. As we gazed at these groups of vessels lying at
anchor, we wondered whether America would always need these grim
objects of destruction and death to guard her liberty. Looking
at these vessels, what memories were revived! Our hearts
sickened at the thought of those thirteen awful days spent in
crossing the ocean, when we were packed like livestock in those
horrible quarters. Ah, God! the memory of it yet brings a
sickening sensation. Then, too, that tempestuous wintry sea that
grew black and white as death with horrible billows, while the
storm raged, cruel, inexorable, unmerciful, bitter. But why let
one's thoughts dwell upon such terrible scenes while standing on
the fair shores of our beloved homeland, over which waves the
glorious flag, now doubly dear to us.
As we watched the coming and going of the vessels we thought of
the many experiences that must have been theirs! For what ports
are those vessels bound? From what distant climes have these
just returned? What perils they may have encountered! What
refreshing memories of the magic beauty of southern seas!
Our reverie was broken by the plaintive cries of the sea birds
circling around us. How the hours have slipped by unnoticed
since we were out here! Slowly we retraced our steps, pausing
now and then to gaze at the fishing boats putting out to sea, or
to look at the hosts of gulls alighting and departing from the
rocks, as restless as the ocean waves. Again we noted the
wonderful blue bloom, like a tropical sea, on which a million
points of light were glinting; now we found a delicate shell and
marvelled at its exquisite colors; we turned again to look at
the sea-birds to learn what the unusually loud clamor was about.
At last the shore was gained and we reluctantly turned away from
those rocks where Undine dwells in the silvery stream and
melodies sweeter than those of the Lorelei still called to us
across the waves.
We passed the old Jewish cemetery which gave Longfellow his
theme, "The Old Jewish Burial Ground at Newport." What exiles,
what persecutions have been theirs, yet here we repeat by the
sounding sea the sad history of their race:
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves;
Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
Silent beside the never silent waves,
At rest in all this moving up and down!
The trees are white with dust that o'er their sleep
Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath,
While underneath these leafy tents they keep
The long, mysterious exodus of Death.
And these sepulchral stones so old and brown,
That pave with level flags their burial place,
Seem like the tablets of the Law thrown down
And broken by Moses at the Mountain's base.
Gone are the living, but the dead remain
And not neglected, for a hand unseen,
Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,
Still keeps their graves and their memories green.
How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,
What persecution, merciless and blind
Drove o'er the sea - that desert desolate -
These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?
Pride and humiliation hand in hand
Walked with them through the world where'er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
And yet unshaken as the continent.
For in the background figures vague and vast
Of patriarchs and prophets rose sublime,
And all the great traditions of the Past
Then saw reflected in the coming Time.
And then forever with reverted look
The mystic volume of the world they read,
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,
Till life became a Legend of the Dead.
But ah! What once has been shall be no more!
The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
And the dead nations never rise again!
Leaving this quiet abode of the dead we were surprised to find
multitudes of people strolling about the town. Of all that
motley throng we met with no one save a solitary fisher out on
the rocks, from which such glorious vistas of the sea may be
had. Then we recalled how few there were who witnessed the
wonderful pageant of the dawn. Surely influences of nature so
beautiful and profound should touch our feeble hopes and lowly
aspirations with new life, inspiring grander visions.
We should leave the frivolous things of life, like the surf, the
offal, washed ashore. We should take back for our winter's need
bits of brightness gleaned from our summer sojourn by the sea.
