setting sun was bathing the low, pine-clad hills of America in floods of
purple light. A pilot came off to offer his services, but was rejected,
and to my delight he hailed in a pure English accent, which sounded like a
friendly welcome. The captain took his place on the paddle-box, and our
speed was slackened. Two guns were fired, and their echoes rolled for many
a mile among the low, purple hills, from which a soft, fragrant scent of
pines was borne to us on the evening breeze, reminding me of the far-
distant mountains of Scotland. The tiny waves rippled towards us like
diamonds, the moon and stars shone brilliantly from a summer sky, and the
white smoke from our guns floated away in silver clouds.

People were tumbling over each other in their haste, and making impossible
demands, each one being anxious to have his luggage produced first, though
the said luggage might be at the bottom of the hold; babies, as babies
always do, persisted in crying just at the wrong time; articles essential
to the toilet were missing, and sixpences or half-sovereigns had found
their way into impossible crevices. Invitations were given, cards
exchanged, elderly ladies unthinkingly promised to make errant expeditions
to visit agreeable acquaintances in California, and by the time the last
words had been spoken we were safely moored at Cunard's wharf.

The evening gun boomed from the citadel. I heard the well-known British
bugle; I saw the familiar scarlet of our troops; the voices which
vociferated were English; the physiognomies had the Anglo-Saxon cast and
complexion; and on the shores of the western hemisphere I felt myself at
home. Yet, as I sprang from the boat, and set my foot for the first time
on American soil, I was vexed that these familiar sights and sounds should
deprive me of the pleasurable feeling of excitement which I had expected
to experience under such novel circumstances.