yachts bade farewell to the United States. The
yachts were at this time almost abreast, driven
through the water by a ten-knot breeze. As
the sun set in a glory of crimson and gold,
each captain took the course he had
previously selected. The Fleetwing kept to the
northward; the Henrietta held straight on
for the European steamer track; the Vesta
dropped away to the southward, hoping to
meet with weather more favourable to her
peculiar construction. At six o'clock P.M. the
yachtsmen on the Henrietta lost sight of the
Fleetwing in the darkness. The Vesta was
visible until eight o'clock, and then she,
too, vanished in a moment. Now, for the first
time, we felt the terrible loneliness of the
sea. But the lights were bright in the cabin;
a sumptuous dinner was served, and, what with
songs and stories below, and a succession of
heavy snow-squalls on deck, there was no
chance to be melancholy. Fortunately, sea-
sickness did not succeed home-sickness. The
Henrietta rocked as gently as a cradle, and no
person on board experienced a moment's illness
at any period of the voyage.

The next day was very bright, but very cold.
We were up betimes, and on the look-out
for the other two yachts. Neither of them
was ever in sight until we arrived at Cowes.
We were not long in ignorance of the
quality of the Henrietta's crew. One man
after another was sent up to reeve a
signal-halyard, and one man after another slipped up
and down the topmast, like a toy-monkey on a
stick. In any case of emergency, we should
have to rely upon Captain Samuels, sailing-
master Lyons, and Jones and Coles, the first
and second officers: who seemed to have
as many lives and as much agility as a pair of
cats, if one might judge from the manner in
which they jumped and climbed about, eager
to atone for the lubberliness of the rest of the
crew. We carried all sail, and made eleven
knots an hour until noon, when we were struck
by a snow-squall, and had to take in topsails.
The wind came in angry gusts from the north.
At one o'clock, the end of our first nautical
day, we found that the Henrietta had sailed
two hundred and thirty-five knots by
observation, and two hundred and thirty-seven by
log. In the afternoon we showed our racing
signal to two steamers, and received prompt
replies. Several sailing vessels were in sight;
but whenever we hoisted our dark blue flag
they kept away from us. This was our constant
experience throughout the race. Whether the
captains of these ships took the Henrietta for
a pirate, or a Fenian privateer—for in those
days there were all kinds of mad tales about
the Fenians—has not been satisfactorily
explained; but we were never able to speak a
vessel, although several were in our direct
course, until we neared the coast of England.
As night fell, the weather grew more stormy,
and the mainsails were reefed. Every now and
then, as the gale moderated, the reefs were
shaken out, only to be taken in again when
the wind increased. During this storm—and,
in fact, throughout the whole voyage—it was
wonderful to observe the tact and patience
with which Messrs. Lyons and Jones, who
commanded the two watches into which the
crew was divided, managed to get the utmost
speed out of the yacht. At all hours the
Henrietta carried all the canvas she could safely
bear, but not a shred more. The sails were
taken in and set, a score of times a day, as the
weather varied. Not a moment was lost, not
a rope strained, not an inch of canvas carried
away. These incessant manœuvres singularly
resembled those of a physician who administers
stimulants to a patient with his hand upon the
pulse, carefully noting every change. The
Henrietta could not have had better doctors,
and could not have done them greater credit.

And now, if the gentle reader be willing to
trust himself upon a yacht in the Atlantic Ocean
on a stormy night in the middle of December,
he shall be invited on board the Henrietta,
and shown over the vessel. The yacht is
inclined at an angle of about forty-five degrees,
and, as she has no bulwarks, the seas break over
her, amidships. Having secured a firm and
moderately dry position on deck, the gentle
reader looks about him and sees, first of all, the
man at the wheel, who is illuminated by the little
lamp placed above the compass. Near this
seaman, leaning over the rope that serves as a
bulwark for the yacht, is Master Lyons, who
commands the watch. The cabin doors are
closed, to shut out the intruding sea. The
deck is encumbered amidships, on the one side
by spare spars, and on the other by the jolly-
boat, which is more ornamental than useful,
since no row-boat could swim when the
Henrietta must sink. None of the crew is visible.
One watch is asleep in the forecastle; the
other is coiled up under tarpaulins forward.
All sail is cracked on for the moment. Those
queer oblong boxes, hauled half-way up the
masts, contain canvas-back ducks—appropriate
game for a yacht race—intended as presents
for English friends, and especially for her
Majesty the Queen. There is nothing else of
interest to be seen on deck; neither Master
Lyons nor the helmsman cares to talk, and
outside the yacht the scriptural "blackness of
darkness" rests upon the face of the waters. So
we had better descend to the cabin, whence
scraps of songs and shouts of laughter issue
invitingly. Stay! Those port-holes attract
attention. The Henrietta served as a revenue
cutter during the late Civil War, and those
port-holes were for her carronades. Her
length? About equal to the frontage of three
ordinary houses. Her breadth? Very nearly
that of an ordinary room. The quarter-deck,
so styled by courtesy, is about ten feet by six,
and to that space, inclined at the angle afore-said,
almost all our exercise is confined. It is
hardly as large as a barn-door.

In the cabin behold five persons, known on
board as, respectively, the chief, the captain,
the lieutenant, the joker, and the journalist.
The chief is, of course, the owner of the yacht.
The captain is Captain Samuels, who