Oh! to me its black rocks and promontories, and islands, are as familiar as the faces of a family. Are there not the “Brothers,” unnatural that they are, who, living centuries together, never to one another have as yet spoken a kindly word,—and the great savage “Executioners,” and “Throgs,” and “Sands,” and “Etons,” all throwing hospitable lights from their high beacon towers, far forward, to guide the wandering mariner; and the “Devil’s Stepping-stones,” o’er which he bounded when driven from Connecticut; and the great rocks too, inside of Flushing bay on which he descended, shivering them from top to bottom as he fell. And are there not the “Norwalk Islands,” with their pines—“Old Sasco,” with her rocks,—“Fairweather,” with the wild bird’s eggs deep buried in her sands,—and the far-famed fishing-banks off the “Middle ground.” Ay! and is it not from the fierce boiling whirlpools of the “Gate” “to Gardiners,” and the lone beacon tower of “Old Montaukett,” one continuous ground of thrilling lore and bold adventure. In her waters the “Fire ship” glared amid the darkness, her phantom crew, like red hot statues, standing at their quarters, as rushing onwards, in the furious storm, she passed the shuddering mariner, leaving, comet like, long streams of flame behind. Beneath her sands the red-shirted bucaneers did hide their ill-gotten, blood-bespotted treasure. Ay! and ’twas on her broad bosom that, with iron-seared conscience sailed that pirate, fierce and bold, old Robert Kidd; and to this very day his golden hoards, with magic mark and sign, still crowd her wooded shores. Hah! ha! how, were he waking, old Scipio’s eyes would upward roll their whites, if he did but hear that name so dread and grim. If, from very eagerness, he could utter forth his words, he would give whole chapters—ay—one from his own family history—for Kidd’s men caught old Cudjoe, his great ancestor, clamming on the beach off Sasco, and without more ado carried him aboard. As the old negro was sulky, they tumbled his well-filled basket into the galley’s tank, and incontinently were about to run him up to dangle at their long yard-arm, when Kidd, who was taking his morning “drink of tobacco” on his poop, roared out, in voice of thunder, “Ho! Scroggs—boatswain—dost hang a black-a-moor at my yard-arm, where so many gentlemen have danced on nothing?—In the foul devil’s name, scuttle the goggled-eyed fiend to the sharks overboard,”—and overboard he went, but diving like a duck, he escaped their firelocks’ quick discharge, and reached the shore in safety.