a yacht’s cabin in a gale. 
23 
called Spanish waves, no one seems to know; but I had 
always heard the seas were heavier here than in any 
other part of the world, and certainly they did not belie 
their character. The little ship behaved beautifully, 
and many a vessel twice her size would have been less 
comfortable. Indeed, few people can have any notion 
of the coziness of a yacht’s cabin under such circum¬ 
stances. After having remained for several hours on 
deck, in the presence of the tempest,—peering through 
the darkness at those black liquid walls of water, 
mounting above you in ceaseless agitation, or tumbling 
over in cataracts of gleaming foam,—the wind roaring 
through the rigging,—timbers creaking as if the ship 
would break its heart,—the spray and rain beating in 
your face,—everything around in tumult,—suddenly to 
descend into the quiet of a snug, well-lighted, little 
cabin, with the firelight dancing on the white rosebud 
chintz, the well-furnished book-shelves, and all the 
innumerable knick-knacks that decorate its walls,— 
little Edith’s portrait looking so serene,—everything 
about you as bright and fresh as a lady’s boudoir in 
May Fair,—the certainty of being a good three hundred 
miles from any troublesome shore,—all combine to 
