"_On_ a boat" always makes
me--, even at my present time of life. The Dawn was cleared the day I
reached town.
Several of the crew of the Crisis had shipped with us anew, the poor
fellows having already made away with all their wages and prize-money,
in the short space of a month! This denoted the usual improvidence of
sailors, and was thought nothing out of the common way. The country
being at peace, a difficulty with Tripoli excepted, it was no longer
necessary for ships to go armed. The sudden excitement produced by the
brush with the French had already subsided, and the navy was reduced
to a few vessels that had been regularly built for the service; while
the lists of officers had been curtailed of two-thirds of their
names. We were no longer a warlike, but were fast getting to be a
strictly commercial, body of seamen. I had a single six-pounder, and
half a dozen muskets, in the Dawn, besides a pair or two of pistols,
with just ammunition enough to quell a mutiny, fire a few signal-guns,
or to kill a few ducks.
We sailed on the 3rd of July. I have elsewhere intimated that the
Manhattanese hold exaggerated notions of the comparative beauty of the
scenery of their port, sometimes presuming to compare it even with
Naples; to the bay of which it bears some such resemblance as a Dutch
canal bears to a river flowing through rich meadows, in the freedom
and grace of nature.
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