Yet neither the taciturn Hollander, nor the mournful alien from France, nor the warring Saxon, nor the native-born American, yearned over it with such intense affection as the poor red man, its earliest lord. He longed to rear his cone-roofed cabin upon its sunny slopes, and to sweep with light canoe into its quiet coves, as his fathers had done of old. Forced by his pale-faced and powerful brother to yield this dearest birthright, he sold for as poor a compensation as the hunter-patriarch, then repented, retracted, reclaimed, re-sold, contended, and vanished like the smoke-wreath among the hills that he loved. Still, he cast the Parthian arrow, and the forests where he lingered and lay in ambush were crimsoned with blood. Still, his parting sigh, wreathed itself into a name of blessing. “_Monocnong_,” or the Enchanted Woods, was the epithet he bestowed upon his beloved and forsaken heritage. In the bitterness of parting, he said that no noxious reptile had ever been found there, till the white man, like a wily serpent, coiled himself amid its shades. MONOCNONG. Gem of the Bay! enchased in waves of light, That ’neath the sunbeam rear a diamond crest, But to the wrathful spirit of the night Turn unsubdued, with thunder in their breast— Fair Isle! where beauty lingereth as a dower O’er rock and roof, and densely-wooded dell, And in the bosom of the autumnal flower Foiling the frost-king in its quiet cell, The Indian hunter of the olden time Saw thee with love, and on his wandering way Staid the keen bow, at morning’s earliest prime, A name of blessing on thy head to lay— Baptism of tears! it liveth on thy shore, Though he, the exiled one, returneth never more. The sail from the city of New York to Staten Island is delightful. The bay sparkled in the broad sunbeam; six miles of diamonds set in turquoise and amethyst. We land, and are borne rapidly along, amid tasteful abodes imbosomed in trees and shrubbery, and adorned with flowers. We pass also the Hospital, a spacious building, where many beds and pillows spread in the open air for purification, denote that disease and death have given a ghastly welcome to some mournful emigrants. Often are we reminded, amid the most luxuriant scenery, that even “in the garden there is a sepulchre.” New Brighton, as seen from the water, is like a cluster of palaces. Large and well arranged boarding-houses furnish accommodations to numerous strangers, who seek in summer the invigorating atmosphere of this island. Among these, the Pavilion and Belmont are conspicuous.