And skirting groves, with creeks and havens fair
Embellish'd, fed with many a beauteous stream,
Prince of the waves, and ocean's favorite child,
Far westward fading, in confusion blue,
And eastward stretch'd beyond the human ken,
And mingled with the sky; there Longa's Sound
Glorious expands."
The evening closed in, mild and balmy, before we reached Stratford, three miles eastward of Bridgeport, and the beautiful country through which we were passing was hidden from view. We crossed several small estuaries, and the vapor that arose from the grassy salt marshes was grateful to the nostrils. The warm land-breeze ceased at eight o'clock, and a strong wind from the ocean brought a chilling fog upon its wings, which veiled the stars, and made us welcome the sparkling lights of New Haven as we descended Milford Hill and crossed the broad salt marsh that skirts the western suburbs of the town. We arrived at the Tontine a little after nine, and supped with a keen appetite, for I had fasted since breakfast at Ridgefield at ten in the morning. It was Saturday night, and the weary journeys of the week made the privileges of the approaching day of rest appear peculiarly valuable.
"The morning dawn'd with tokens of a storm—
A ruddy cloud athwart the eastern sky