Nevertheless, there _are_ times and seasons
when the bay of New York offers a landscape worthy of any pencil. It
was at one of these felicitous moments that the Dawn cast off from the
wharf, and commenced her voyage to Bordeaux. There was barely air
enough from the southward to enable us to handle the ship, and we
profited by a morning ebb to drop down to the Narrows, in the midst of
a fleet of some forty sail; most of the latter, however, being
coasters. Still, we were a dozen ships and brigs, bound to almost as
many different countries. The little air there was, seemed scarcely to
touch the surface of the water; and the broad expanse of bay was as
placid as an inland lake, of a summer's morning. Yes, yes--there are
moments when the haven of New York does present pictures on which the
artist would seize with avidity; but, the instant nature attempts any
of her grander models, on this, a spot that seems never to rise much
above the level of commercial excellencies, it is found that the
accessaries are deficient in sublimity, or even beauty.
I have never seen our home waters so lovely as on this morning. The
movements of the vessels gave just enough of life and variety to the
scene to destroy the appearance of sameness; while the craft were too
far from the land to prevent one of the most unpleasant effects of the
ordinary landscape scenery of the place--that produced by the
disproportion between the tallness of their spars, and the low
character of the adjacent shores.
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