knell, they showed no leakage. Sea after sea
boarded the yacht, but did no damage. Not
even a spare spar was moved. Running freely
before the wind, the Henrietta never pitched
nor tossed, and, full of confidence in her
strength and buoyancy, all hands slept as
soundly as if the yacht had been the Great
Eastern. In the grey of the following morning
we were crossing the Grand Banks of
Newfoundland. Through the thick mist, we
saw a heavily-laden brig bearing down upon
us. We were sailing at tremendous speed,
and cut boldly across her course. Her crew,
startled by an apparition which must have
seemed to them like the Flying Dutchman,
manned the rigging to stare at us; but we
dashed swiftly by in silence, and as swiftly
disappeared. At noon, we reckoned that we
had made two hundred and fifty-six miles
during the last nautical day, and had
accomplished one-third of the distance to Cowes.
The wind had been west by north, and north
by west, since our start, and the yacht had
kept her course without perceptible variation.
The captain reminded us that this day, the
sixteenth of December, was the Sabbath, and
at two o'clock the yachtsmen and the officers
assembled in the cabin for divine service. The
prayers for the day, a chapter from the Bible,
and one of Jay's brief sermons were read in
turn; but this simple ceremony acquired a
remarkable solemnity from the circumstances
by which we were surrounded. The swash of
the seas that swept over the vessel often
drowned the voice of the reader. During
the service, one of the crew was carried
over-board, and all rushed on deck to rescue him.
The passage, "Surely in the midst of life we
are in death" seemed to us transposed; for
surely in the midst of death we were in life!

Again the night came, and we had cleared
the Grand Banks and were off soundings. The
sea still hammered away at the yacht, as if
Neptune had surrendered his trident to Vulcan;
but the wind held from the northward, and the
gallant Henrietta registered her eleven and
twelve knots an hour. The next morning we
were in the "roaring forties"—degrees of longitude
which the captain had taught us to dread.
The character of the waves entirely altered.
Instead of dancing over short chopping seas,
like those of the English Channel, we passed
between ranges of water-hills. Sailing in the
trough of the sea, the sensation was precisely
similar to that which is experienced in passing
through a railway cutting, except that our
banks were movable. As they rose and fell
they disclosed mirages in the dim distance.
Ships under full sail, ocean islands, even
momentary towns and cities, were pictured
upon the waves, the views changing like those
of a kaleidoscope. The water was glazed by
the snow, and appeared to be of the consistency
of oil. There was no horizon. The sky was
veiled with leaden clouds. Nevertheless, we
were in excellent spirits, for the barometer
promised us fair weather; the wind, which had
been wavering for some hours, again blew from
the north; and our reckoning showed that the
yacht had gained two hundred and eighty miles
during the past day. Thus in six days and
fourteen hours we had sailed half across the
Atlantic. In the afternoon a magnificent rainbow
decorated the sky and endorsed the
promises of the barometer. Amid the general
jubilance, the captain alone was morose. He
declared that we had been too fortunate, and
that our luck was too good to last. The
barometer was wrong; the rainbow was wrong;
Captain Samuels, as usual, was right. During
the night the wind shifted to west-south-
west, and we were compelled to jibe ship,
throwing all the sleepers out of their berths
remorselessly. Rain and hail-squalls followed
each other in rapid succession. Signs of dirty
weather ominously increased. For the first
time, the mainsail was double-reefed. At noon
we had sailed two hundred and fifty miles; but
with the dreaded south-west wind to baffle us
we had no hope of such splendid progress in
the future. Clearly, we should have to face an
adverse gale. The journalist was about to
have his wishes realised; but the rest of the
company regarded him as a Jonah, and glared
at him as wrathfully as if he had been
personally responsible for the storm.

At four o'clock P.M. the gale had set in with
all its fury. The mainsail was furled, the jibs
were taken in, and the foresail was trebly reefed.
Under this small spread of canvas, the yacht was
driven at the rate of nine knots an hour. The
rain and spray now dropped around the vessel
like a watery curtain, as if the sea would conceal
from us the terrors it was preparing. The
Henrietta, tormented by the wind and waves,
lost all patience, and pitched and tossed about
like a thing possessed of evil spirits. The yacht
was put in order for the worst. A bucket was
placed near the cabin stove, to extinguish
the fire if necessary. The dead-lights leaked.
Water came dripping in through seams hitherto
seaworthy. Needless to say, it was impossible
to sleep. The servants, attempting to
comply with innumerable orders, were flung
about the cabin, as if discharged from catapults.
The seamen moved about dejectedly, as though
some great peril were impending. The ready
cry, "If you're not satisfied, take your carpet-
bag and go ashore," that had hitherto
prevented all grumbling, no longer preserved good
humour among the yachtsmen. At last the
order, "Lie down and take it easy," sent the
company to their couches, and transformed
them into marine Mark Tapleys. It was so
pleasant to lie there and watch the men boring
holes in the floor to let out the water in case
the waves broke through the skylight! Suppose
the waves did break through the skylight—what
then? As if in answer, there came a frightful
crash on deck. A tremendous sea had burst
over the quarter, struck full upon the foresail,
and glanced off upon the jolly-boat, staving in
the boat's side like a blow from a sledge-
hammer. If that sea had struck the deck
first, the Henrietta must have foundered with
all on board. Simultaneously, the carpenter