The last round of blubber has been "piked off;" the last pot of oil "baled down;" the last pipe stowed that "chocks off betwixt decks," and Old Jeff's immense "plantations" displayed in a triumphant doubleshuffle on the main hatches. Now comes the expected and welcome order. "Overboard tryworks!" Crowbars, hammers, or whatever else will serve the purpose, are seized, and rapidly the cumbrous pile of greasy bricks and mortar disappears under our vigorous blows, the pots alone being saved for the next voyage; the deck is washed and planed off where it had stood; and the old strainer, shattered by hard service, and half-charred by the fire, travels the same road, overboard. We are all astonished that our ship has such a spacious maindeck; and she herself, by her more buoyant and elastic movement, seems to share in the general joy, at being relieved of this unsightly burden. Still onward, homeward, she bounds along! down into the south-east trades, where the duty of dressing her up for home begins; where the operations of fitting, rattling down and tarring down furnish ample employment for us all; where outward-bound merchantmen are met, and passed every day, and longitudes compared by chalking them in gigantic figures on boards, like showmen's posters; where the south-east trades haul to north-east, and knock us off into the "bight of Brazil," compelling us to beat off and on for several days; where _catamarans_, or triangular rafts, fully officered and manned by one Portuguese, come off several miles to sea, to catch fish, and to sell them, too, if a passing ship comes conveniently near; where a big, black steamer, evidently of Yankee build, but wearing the gorgeous Brazilian flag, and showing the name "Bahiana," passes almost within hail of us. We are favored with a slant of wind at last; Cape St. Augustin is doubled and left astern, the towers of Pernambuco are seen, with ships in the roadstead, and now the coast again trends to the westward, and is soon lost to our view. "Sail ho!" a whaler, too, right from home! Now for a gam, for newspapers, perhaps letters, too, for some of us, for books, for tobacco! She hails us, and gives her name as the "Delta, of Greenport." No letters for us there; but we get bundles of New York papers, and peruse them, all four pages, from "clew to earring," advertisements and all. They are filled with politics, for this is campaign year (1844), and of course, we are highly competent, after nearly three years' absence, to understand the issues of the hour! Not a word is said about the National Bank, or the Sub-Treasury, or any of the old bones of contention which are familiar to us, but everything is Texas or no Texas. Henry Clay's name is prominent, and excites no wonder, for his fame has long been national; but "who is James K. Polk?"