We leave New York at noon. It is a perfect winter's day--the air
cold and crisp, the sun brightly shining. There are all manner of
craft in the North River, or Hudson, and our big ship makes her way
among them with leisurely dignity. On our starboard is Jersey City;
on the port side, the buildings of Old Manhattan raise their giant
forms, fearfully and wonderfully tall. Presently we pass by the
statue of Liberty, and leave the great metropolis of the New World
behind. A marvellous city is New York, marching forward with
gigantic strides to the forefront of the world's cities. Even now it
is second only to London, and in ways not a few it is first. We pass
out of the roar of its traffic, away from its teeming, busy life, and
the restful ocean takes us to its heaving bosom.
"Our next port of call is Boston," says one passenger to another
standing near him, just as we are getting out to sea. "Not at all,"
rejoins the other, "this boat doesn't call at Boston." An officer of
the ship, who is standing by, is appealed to, and he bears out the
first speaker. The news is received with surprise amounting almost
to consternation. Hardly one of the passengers knew of this change
in our programme of travel. Back to Boston; it is like going back
home again! But to Boston we steer our course. Off Cape Cod, miles
and miles out at sea, men are fishing in their dories. We pass
within fifty yards of one, but so intent is he upon his work that he
does not as much as cast one look at us. After a little we pick up
our pilot, and begin threading our way through the narrow entrance to
Boston harbour.
* * *