No. 4, my last, is only a sketch;--circumstances allowed no more. Can
Grande, the great dog, has been got up out of the pit, where he worried
the stewardess and snapped at the friend who tried to pat him on the
head. Everybody asks where he is. Don't you see that heap of shawls
yonder, lying in the sun, and heated up to about 212 degrees Fahrenheit?
That slouched hat on top marks the spot where his head should lie,--by
treading cautiously in the opposite direction you may discover his
feet. All between is perfectly passive and harmless. His chief food is
pickles,--his only desire is rest. After all these years of controversy,
after all these battles, bravely fought and nobly won, you might write
with truth upon this moveless mound of woollens the pathetic words from
Pere la Chaise:--_Implora Pace_.
But no more at present, for land is in sight, and in my next you shall
hear how we found it, and what we saw at Nassau.
NASSAU.
Nassau looked very green and pleasant to us after our voyage;--the eyes
enjoy a little fresh provision after so long a course of salt food. The
first view of land is little more than "the feeling of the thing,"--it
is matter of faith, rather than of sight.
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