eyes,--creole eyes. Evidently a West Indian....

The morning is still gray, but the sun is dissolving the haze.
Gradually the gray vanishes, and a beautiful, pale, vapory blue--
a spiritualized Northern blue--colors water and sky. A cannon-
shot suddenly shakes the heavy air: it is our farewell to the
American shore;--we move. Back floats the wharf, and becomes
vapory with a bluish tinge. Diaphanous mists seem to have caught
the sky color; and even the great red storehouses take a faint
blue tint as they recede. The horizon now has a greenish glow,
Everywhere else the effect is that of looking through very light-
blue glasses....

We steam under the colossal span of the mighty bridge; then for
a little while Liberty towers above our passing,--seeming first
to turn towards us, then to turn away from us, the solemn beauty
of her passionless face of bronze. Tints brighten;--the heaven is
growing a little bluer, A breeze springs up....

Then the water takes on another hue: pale-green lights play
through it, It has begun to sound, Little waves lift up their
heads as though to look at us,--patting the flanks of the vessel,
and whispering to one another.

Far off the surface begins to show quick white flashes here and
there, and the steamer begins to swing.... We are nearing
Atlantic waters, The sun is high up now, almost overhead: there
are a few thin clouds in the tender-colored sky,--flossy, long-
drawn-out, white things. The horizon has lost its greenish glow:
it is a spectral blue. Masts, spars, rigging,--the white boats