CHAPTER XXI.
“Drink! drink! to whom shall we drink?
To a friend or a mistress?—Come, let me think!
To those who are absent or those who are here?
To the dead that we loved, or the living still dear?
Alas! when I look I find none of the last!
The present is barren—let's drink to the past.”
PAULDING.
Though strictly a Manhattanese as a sailor, I shall not run into rhapsody on the subject of the beauties of the inner or outer bay of this prosperous place. No man but one besotted with provincial conceit could ever think of comparing the harbour of New York with the Bay of Naples; nor do I know two places, that have the same great elements of land and water that are less alike. The harbour of New York is barely pretty; not a particle more, if quite as much; while the Bay of Naples is almost what its owners so fondly term it, “a little bit of heaven, fallen upon earth.” On the other hand, however, Naples, as a haven, is not to be mentioned in the same breath with the great American mart, which, as a port, has no competitor within the circle of my knowledge, Constantinople alone excepted. I wish my semi-townsmen, the Manhattanese, could be persuaded of these facts, as, when they do brag, as the wisest of mortals sometimes will, they might brag of their strong, and not of their weak points, as is now too often the case.
The Major, Emily and myself, stood on the poop, regarding the scene, as the ship glided onward, before a good south-east breeze. I watched the countenances of my companions with interest, for I had the nervousness of a tyro and a provincial, on the subject of the opinions of the people of other lands, concerning everything that affected my own. I could see that the Major was not particularly struck; and I was disappointed, then, whatever may be my opinion now. Emily better answered my hopes. Whether the charming girl really felt the vast contrast between a view of the unbroken expanse of the ocean, and the scene before her, or was disposed to please her host, she did not hesitate to express delight. I let her understand how much I was gratified; and thus our long, long voyage, and that, so far as degrees of longitude were concerned, nearly embraced the circuit of the earth, may be said to have terminated with the kindest feelings.
The ship was off Bedlow's, and the pilot had begun to shorten sail, when a schooner crossed our fore-foot, beating down. I had been too much occupied with the general movement of the bay, to notice one small craft; but, this vessel happening to tack quite near us, I could not but turn my eyes in her direction. At that instant I heard a shout from Neb, who was furling one of the royals. It was one of those irrepressible “nigger gollies” that often escaped from the fellow involuntarily.
“What do you mean by that uproar, on the mizen-royal yard,” I called out angrily—for the style of my ship had now become an object of concern with me. “Keep silence, sir, or I'll find a way to instruct you in the art.”
“Lord!—masser Mile—” cried the negro, pointing eagerly towards the schooner—“there go Pretty Poll.”
It was our old craft sure enough, and I hailed her, incontinently.
“Pretty Polly, ahoy!”