That Done, And There Being No Signs Of The Pilgrim,
I Made A Descent Upon Old Schmidt, And Borrowed And Read All The
Books There Were Upon The Beach.
Such a dearth was there of these
latter articles, that anything, even a little child's story-book,
or the
Half of a shipping calendar, appeared like a treasure.
I actually read a jest-book through, from beginning to end, in one
day, as I should a novel, and enjoyed it very much. At last,
when I thought that there were no more to be got, I found, at the
bottom of old Schmidt's chest, "Mandeville, a Romance, by Godwin,
in five volumes." This I had never read, but Godwin's name was enough,
and after the wretched trash I had devoured, anything bearing the name
of a distinguished intellectual man, was a prize indeed. I bore it off,
and for two days I was up early and late, reading with all my might,
and actually drinking in delight. It is no extravagance to say that
it was like a spring in a desert land.
From the sublime to the ridiculous - so with me, from Mandeville
to hide-curing, was but a step; for
Wednesday, July 18th, brought us the brig Pilgrim from the windward.
As she came in, we found that she was a good deal altered in her
appearance. Her short top-gallant masts were up; her bowlines all
unrove (except to the courses); the quarter boom-irons off her lower
yards; her jack-cross-trees sent down; several blocks got rid of;
running-rigging rove in new places; and numberless other changes
of the same character.
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