APPENDIX.
1627-1885.
Legendary—Historical—Statistical.

ELL Gate, the scene of the tragedy described in the foregoing pages, is not now what it was in former times. Its turbulent character has been modified to such a degree that it has already lost half its terrors. The mariner now, by skillful piloting, can avoid its dangers and bring his ship safely from the jaws of this modern Charybdis. Not so in days remote,—its numerous rocks, islands, shelves and whirlpools rendering it terrible to the most skillful pilot at certain times of tide. This long-desired change has been brought about by the Government, which has expended millions of dollars in making this narrow strait leading to the Sound less dangerous to the navigator. Though it has been the scene of numerous tragedies, its history is not altogether uninteresting—and first, as regards its name. There having been considerable controversy, in times past, as to its correct orthography, we have taken some trouble to investigate the matter. Some writers have insisted that it should be spelt Hurl Gate. Ancient records, however, do not bear them out in this respect. The map in Van der Donck’s History, published in 1656; Ogilvie’s History of America, 1671, and also a journal written in the sixteenth century, found in Hazard’s State Papers, give the name as printed in the Poem. Besides these ancient and trustworthy authorities, there is a venerable essay in French, which, speaking of various changes made in names about New York, observes—“De Helle-gat, trou d’Enfer, ils ont fait Hell-Gate, Porte d’Enfer.”

For aught we know the heroine of this strange legend, which the author has sought to illustrate in verse, may have read the above passage in French;—if so, her childish fear, after her father had spoken of their close proximity to the fatal strait, was no more intense than we can readily understand, when we take into account the superstitious age in which the actors lived.

The perching of a raven upon the boom of the vessel, off the Azores, contributed also to impress the Pirate’s daughter with evil forebodings. Nor could she escape observing the consternation of the sailors who beheld it fluttering over her father’s head, and overheard its dreadful prophecy. This bird, as is well known, is exceedingly intelligent, and can be taught to articulate words. It lives to a great age, a hundred years or more, and from remote periods of history has been connected with various popular superstitions. The Bible gives the first historical notice of this species. We are told that at the end of forty days, after the great flood had covered the earth, Noah, wishing to ascertain whether or no the waters had abated, sent forth a raven, which did not return into the ark. When Elijah provoked the enmity of Ahab, by prophesying against him, and hid himself by the Brook Cherith, the ravens were appointed by Heaven to bring him his daily food. Though thus honored, this bird seems in all ages to have been considered ominous of evil, and, in the days of auguries and divination, like the Banshee of the Irish, was thought to possess the power of foretelling future events—especially such as were dark, gloomy, and foreboding.

Perhaps no bird is more widely distributed over the surface of the globe. A British writer says, it “croaks as gravely as with ourselves on the shores of the Black and Caspian Seas, visits our Indian metropolis of Calcutta, forces it way over the guarded shores of Japan, dwells among our busy descendants of America, ranges from Mount Etna to the Iceland cold of Hecla, and braves the rigor of the Arctic regions as far as Melville’s Island.” Dr. Richardson says that “it frequents the Barren Grounds of the most intense winter cold, its movements being directed in a great measure by those of the herds of reindeer, musk-oxen, and bisons, which it follows, ready to assist in devouring such as are killed by beasts of prey or by accident.” Captain Ross speaks of it as “one of the few birds capable of braving the severity of an Arctic winter.”

Although we have the pestering crow, with its unvarying “Caw, caw, caw!” almost everywhere in our Eastern States, the raven is rarely seen there, yet it is common in the West, and thence northward to the Fur Countries. In this State it has its favorite haunts, one of which is the region about Niagara Falls. Here, mingling its croakings with the roar of waters, it seems still more solemn and mysterious than elsewhere. Here one might read Poe’s “Raven,” which, by its spectral images, produces a striking effect on the imagination, and feel the force of the poet’s language as in no other locality:—

“Open here I flung my shutter.
When, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp’d a stately raven
Of the saintly days of yore:
Not the least obeisance made he,
Not an instant stopp’d or staid he,
But, with mein of lord or lady.
Perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas,
Just above my chamber door;
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

“Then this ebon bird beguiling
My sad fancy into smiling,
By the grim and stern decorum
Of the countenance it wore:
‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
Thou’—I said—‘art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven,
Wandering from the nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is,
On the night’s Plutonian shore?’—
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore!’”
* * * *
“‘Be that word our sign of parting,
Bird or fiend,’ I shrieked upstarting:
‘Get thee back into the tempest,
And the night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken—
Leave my loneliness unbroken,
Quit the bust above my door;
Take thy beak from out my heart,
And take thy form from off my door’—
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore!’”

Sailors, it is well known, are very superstitious in regard to birds alighting on their vessels. On such occasions they call them devil’s birds, witches, etc. The appearance of stormy petrels at sea has been supposed to portend rough weather, and they are therefore not welcome visitors to sailors. These birds seem to delight in storm and tempest, now sweeping down into the trough of the sea, and now soaring high up among the clouds, and wheeling athwart them, as if enjoying a frolic. They are said to haunt the whole Atlantic seaboard. Their habit of paddling along the surface of the water obtained for them the name of petrel, from the Apostle Peter, who walked upon the water. It is probably to the birds of this species—the fearless riders of the tempest—that Brainard refers in his song of “The Sea-Bird”:—