On my arrival, I found a host of bachelors, and wedded men en garcon, ready to greet me with a hearty welcome.  The room was very comfortable, but as unfurnished as those who like to smoke could desire; in fact, barring the table and its burden, the chairs and their occupiers, the remainder of the furniture consisted of models of all the yachts of the club.  The only exception was that of the Commodore’s triumphant “Black Maria,” of which extraordinary vessel I purpose speaking more fully hereafter.  One of the peculiar customs of the club is, that two members, whose capabilities are beyond dispute, are appointed, one to make the soup, called “chowder,” the other the punch—­or “toddy,” as it is here termed,—­both of these being excellent in their way, and different in many respects from any similar article at home.  The proper recipe for the same shall be forthcoming when I give details of the “Black Maria.”

Our party was a very jovial one, as I think parties generally are when composed of those who are much on the water.  Such people naturally look upon a leak as very lubberly and unprofessional, and therefore scrupulously avoid letting in any water, supplying its place with something more cheery, under the enlivening influence whereof, those who would be puzzled to decide whether a hand-organ was playing “Hail, Columbia!” or “Pop goes the Weasel,” lose all false modesty as to their musical powers, and become royally (I beg majesty’s pardon) vocal.  Choruses receive the additional charm of variety from each vocalist giving his tongue “universal suffrage” as to power, matter, and melody; everybody evinces a happy independence, and if, as the chorus is beginning, an unlucky wight finds his cigar just going out, he takes a few puffs to save the precious fire, and then starts off Derby pace to catch up his vocal colleagues, blending ten notes into one in his frantic chase.

To any one who delights in the opera, this description might suggest a slight idea of discord, but to one who has enjoyed a midshipman’s berth it recals some of the cheeriest days of his life; as I heard the joyous shouts, I felt my grey lank hairs getting black and curly again (?).  Do not imagine this merry scene was the produce of any excess; we were as sober as judges, though we felt their gravity would have been out of place; but when some choice spirit—­and there was more than one such—­with the soul of melody in him, took the field, we left him to make all the running himself, and smoked our cigars with increased vigour, shrouding him in the curling cloud to prevent any nervous hesitation.

Everything, however, must have an end, and as the hour for the last ferry-boat was fast approaching, the voice of melody was hushed in the hall, to echo through the groves of Hoboken and o’er the waters of the Hudson, as we strolled from the club-house to the ferry, and thence to bed.