A heavy bank of cloud was piled up in the west, through which stole long bars of sunshine, gilding the leaden waves.  The “Lotus” bent lovingly to the gale.  Some of us went into the cabin, and tried to brace ourselves in comfortable and secure corners—­item—­there are no comfortable or secure seats at sea, and there will be none until there is a revolution in ship-building.  Our yachting afforded us an infinite variety of experience in a very short time; we had a taste of the British Channel as soon as we were clear of the end of the wharf.  It was like rounding Gibraltar to weather Alcatraz, and, as we skimmed over the smooth flood in Raccoon Straits, I could think of nothing but the little end of the Golden Horn.  Why not?  The very name of our yacht was suggestive of the Orient.  The sun was setting; the sky deeply flushed; the distance highly idealized; homeward hastened a couple of Italian fishing boats, with their lateen sails looking like triangular slices cut out of the full moon; this sort of thing was very soothing.  We all lighted our cigarettes, and lapsed into dreamy silence, broken only by the plash of ripples under our bow and the frequent sputter of matches quite necessary to the complete consumption of our tobacco.

[Illustration:  Meigg’s Wharf in 1856]

About dusk our rakish cutter drifted into the shelter of the hills along the north shore of the bay, and with a chorus of enthusiastic cheers we dropped anchor in two fathoms of soft mud.  We felt called upon to sing such songs as marines are wont to sing upon the conclusion of a voyage, and I believe our deck presented a tableau not less picturesque than that in the last act of “Black-eyed Susan.”  Susan alone was wanting to perfect our nautical happiness.

How charming to pass one’s life at sea, particularly when it is a calm twilight, and the anchor is fast to the bottom:  the sheltering shores seem to brood over you; pathetic voices float out of the remote and deepening shadows; and stars twinkle so naturally in both sea and sky that a fellow scarcely knows which end he stands on.

I have preserved a few leaves from a log written by my bosom friend.  I present them as he wrote them, although he apparently had “Happy Thoughts” on the brain, and much Burnand had well nigh made him mad.

THE LOG OF THE “LOTUS”

9 p.m.—­Dinner just over; part of our crew desirous of fishing during the night; hooks lost, lines tangled, no bait; a row by moonlight proposed.

10 p.m.—­The Irrepressibles still eager to fish; lines untangled, hooks discovered; two fellows despatched with yawl in search of bait; a row by moonlight again proposed; we take observation—­no moon!

11 p.m.—­Two fellows returning from shore with hen; hen very tough and noisy; tough hens not good for bait; fishing postponed till daybreak; moonlight sail proposed as being a pleasant change; still no moon; half the crew turn in for a night’s rest; cabin very full of half-the-crew.