The first thrill was when Bowling Green, Esq., secretary, cast an eye upward as the club descended from the Fourteenth Street sharabang, and saw, over the piers, the tall red funnels of the Aquitania.  This is going to be great doings, said he to himself.  O Cunard Line funnels!  What is there that so moves the heart?

Bowling Green, Esq., confesses that it is hard to put these minutes into cold and calculated narrative.  Among ships and seafaring concerns his heart is too violently stirred to be quite maitre de soi.

The club moved forward.  Welcomed by the suave commissionaire of the Cunard Line, it was invited to rise in the elevator.  On the upper floor of the pier the members ran to the windows.  There lay the Aquitania at her pier.  The members’ hearts were stirred.  Even the doctor, himself a hardened man of the sea, showed a brilliant spark of emotion behind his monocular attic window.  A ship in dock—­and what a ship!  A ship at a city pier, strange sight.  It is like a lion in a circus cage.  She, the beauty, the lovely living creature of open azure and great striding ranges of the sea, she that needs horizons and planets for her fitting perspective, she that asks the snow and silver at her irresistible stern, she that persecutes the sunset across the purple curves of the longitudes—­tied up stiff and dead in the dull ditch of a dockway.  The upward slope of that great bow, it was never made to stand still against a dusty pier-end.

The club proceeded and found itself in a little eddy of pure Scotland.  The Columbia was just in from Glasgow—­had docked only an hour before.  The doctor became very Scots in a flash.  “Aye, bonny!” was his reply to every question asked him by Mr. Green, the diligent secretary.  The secretary was addressed as “lad.”  A hat now became a “bonnet.”  The fine stiff speech of Glasgow was heard on every side, for the passengers were streaming through the customs.  Yon were twa bonny wee brithers, aiblins ten years old, that came marching off, with bare knees and ribbed woollen stockings and little tweed jackets.  O Scotland, Scotland, said our hairt!  The wund blaws snell frae the firth, whispered the secretary to himself, keeking about, but had not the courage to utter it.

Here the secretary pauses on a point of delicacy.  It was the purpose of the club to visit Capt.  David W. Bone of the Columbia, but the captain is a modest man, and one knows not just how much of our admiration of him and his ship he would care to see spread upon the minutes.  Were Mr. Green such a man as the captain, would he be lowering himself to have any truck with journalists and such petty folk?  Mr. Green would not.  Mark you:  Captain Bone is the master of an Atlantic liner, a veteran of the submarine-haunted lanes of sea, a writer of fine books (have you, lovers of sea tales, read “The Brassbounder” and “Broken Stowage"?) a collector of first editions, a man who stood on