At 1.35 we made the island of Ockseu, a capital land-fall, and very satisfactory in every way; for the sky was too much overcast to get an observation, and the currents hereabouts are strong and variable.  During the night the wind fell light, but we maintained a speed of from nine to ten knots.

Sunday, February 25th.—­A much finer day.  At 8 a.m. we had run 299 knots since the same time yesterday.  We met a large steamer and passed a brigantine; also several Chinese junks.  About twelve o’clock we saw a flag being waved frantically from a junk not far from us.  At first we thought something was wrong with them; but soon a small boat put off with three men, and we found, on its arrival alongside, that it contained a pilot anxious for a job.  He was very disappointed that we would not let him come on board; but Tom always likes doing the pilotage himself.  The boat was a rough wash-tub kind of affair, not much better than those used by the inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego and Patagonia.

About two o’clock we entered the tropics; but the weather is now colder again, and not nearly so pleasant as it was two days ago.  I suppose it is owing to the north-east monsoon.

In the course of the afternoon we received several more offers of pilotage, all of which were declined; and at 7.45 we got up steam and lay to all night, ready to go into Hongkong harbour at daylight.

Monday, February 26th.—­At 4 a.m. we found ourselves close under the light on the eastern end of the island of Hongkong.  We were surrounded by islands, and the morning was dark and thick; so we waited till 5.30, and then steamed on through the Kowloon passage up to the city of Victoria, as it is really named, though it is generally called Hongkong.  The channel is long, and in some places so narrow that it is like going through a mountain pass, with barren hills and rocks on either hand; but the combined effect of the blue waters, and red, brown, and yellow hills, is very fine.

Off the town of Victoria the crowd of shipping is immense, and it became a difficult task to thread our way between the fleets of sampans and junks.  The latter are the most extraordinary-looking craft I ever saw, with high, overhanging sterns and roll, or rather draw, up sails, sometimes actually made of silk, and puffed like a lady’s net ball-dress.  Then their decks are so crowded with lumber, live and dead, that you wonder how the boats can be navigated at all.  But still they are much more picturesque than the Japanese junks, and better sea boats.  The sampans are long boats, pointed at both ends, and provided with a small awning.  They have deep keels; and underneath the floor there is one place for a cooking fire, another for an altar, and a third where the children are stowed to be out of the way.  In these sampans whole families, sometimes five generations, live and move and have their being.  I never shall forget my astonishment when, going ashore very early