EAST ROCK.
One of the famous places of resort in the neighborhood of New Haven is East Rock, an abrupt pile of red-brown trap rock, lifting itself up from the plain to a height of four hundred feet. The summit of this monumental pile spreads out in a wide plateau of twenty-five or thirty acres, sloping gradually back towards the meadow lands which border the winding Quinnipiac River. It is owned and occupied by a somewhat eccentric individual, rejoicing in the name of Milton Stuart, who related to me the story of his life in this strange locality since taking up his abode here, some twenty years ago. On being told that I would commit to paper some account of my wanderings about New Haven, he seemed to take an especial pleasure in showing me his grounds and telling me everything of interest concerning them.
With ready courtesy he pointed out a heap of stones on the western slope of the bluff, which he said was all that remained of a hut formerly occupied by one John Turner, who made a hermit of himself on this rock, years ago, all because the lady of his love refused to become Mrs. Turner. He met her while teaching in the South—so the story ran—and all his energies seemed to be paralyzed by her refusal to listen to his suit. He came to East Rock and built this wretched hovel of stone, where he lived in solitude, and where one morning in that long ago, he was found dead on the floor of his hovel. How many romances like this lie about us unseen, under the every-day occurrences of life!