One came very near the ship, and we had a distinct view of its
enormous body. We had a good deal of fog when off Newfoundland, which
obliged us to use the fog-whistle frequently; and a most dismal sounding
instrument it is. The fog prevented our having any communication with
Cape Race, from whence a boat would otherwise have come off to receive
the latest news from England, and our arrival would have been
telegraphed to New York.
The coast of Long Island came in sight yesterday, and our excitement was
naturally great as we approached the American shore.
Before rounding Sandy Hook, which forms the entrance on one side to the
bay of New York, we ran along the eastern coast of Long Island, which
presents nothing very remarkable in appearance, although the pretty
little bright town of Rockaway, with its white houses studded along the
beach, and glittering in the sun, gave a pleasing impression of the
country. This was greatly increased when, running up the bay, we came to
what are called the Narrows, and had Staten Island on our left and Long
Island on the right. The former, something like the Isle of Wight in
appearance, is a thickly-wooded hill covered with pretty country
villas, and the Americans were unceasing in their demands for admiration
of the scenery.[1]
Before entering the Narrows, indeed shortly after passing Sandy Hook, a
little boat with a yellow flag came from the quarantine station to see
if we were free from yellow fever and other disorders.
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