I Looked In The Direction Indicated By His
Finger, And Beheld, Not The Lofty Pinnacled Cliffs Of The "Pilgrim
Fathers," But A Low Gloomy Coast, Looming Through A Mist.
I already began to appreciate the hearty enthusiasm with which Americans
always speak of their country, designated as it
Is by us by the names
"National vanity," and "Boastfulness." This esprit du pays, although it
is sometimes carried to a ridiculous extent, is greatly to be preferred to
the abusive manner in which an Englishman accustoms himself to speak of
the glorious country to which he appears to feel it a disgrace to belong.
It does one good to hear an American discourse on America, his panegyric
generally concluding with the words, "We're the greatest people on the
face of the earth."
At dusk, after steaming during the whole day along the low green coast of
Nova Scotia, we were just outside the heads of Halifax harbour, and the
setting sun was bathing the low, pine-clad hills of America in floods of
purple light. A pilot came off to offer his services, but was rejected,
and to my delight he hailed in a pure English accent, which sounded like a
friendly welcome. The captain took his place on the paddle-box, and our
speed was slackened. Two guns were fired, and their echoes rolled for many
a mile among the low, purple hills, from which a soft, fragrant scent of
pines was borne to us on the evening breeze, reminding me of the far-
distant mountains of Scotland.
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