The Sun.
London, England, 1866-12-29 00:00:00

The Great Atlantic Yacht Race.

(FROM A SPECIAL COMMISSIONER.)
COWES, Thursday.
The stormy days and nights of December are not,
nor cannot be believed to be the most propitious
even for a voyage on the Lake of Como. There aro
historical records of memorable voyages in propitious
seasons, of vessels which are but cockle-shells in
comparison with the mighty Leviathan, who proudly
plow the deep and recklessly tosses the foaming
waves from their sharp-cutting bows. Cleopatra,
with her golden painted barge and silver armed
oarsmen fascinated the eyes of an Anthony, and is a
tender and touching episode immortalised by Eng-
land's bard. Marco Polo, sailing on his reputed voyage
and almost touching the Pillars of Hercules, is ever
a favourite topic with explorers. Columbus leav-
ing Spain under the halo of Ferdinand and Isa-
bella's throne-like influence, and following the
track of the drifting sea weed till he touched
American shores ; Sebastian Cabot, sailing without
reckoning or chart, and simply governed by con-
jecture; Americus Vespucius and Sebastian Cabot,
alike adventurous navigators, taught the world
the example of resolution, cool hercism, and daunt-
less spirit ; Franklin setting forth, with mighty
purpose and national patriotism, to find a way for
his country's winged fleet to bring her Indian glories
to the mother home, are all recorded in story, book,
and song.
England for centuries has been the cradle from
which has sprung the dauntless and the daring
heroes of a thousand battles, a thousand explo-
rations on countless seas, and a history that
can only die from the memories of mankind when
the pen of the historian has ceased to indite, the
sculptor has ceased to make glowing with beauty
the icy marble, or the painter has lost his cunning
on the tell-tale canvas.
America is her offspring. Her people are the
giants of the age. They possess the elements of a
progressive strength. Art has sought for her uni-
versal temple the humble boy that could consecrate
the matchless beauty of women in marble, and
chisel it by the hand of a Powers in the sacred
classic ground of the Eternal City—Rome ! His-
tory, in the present, claims among her contributors
the calm-thinking power of many a mind
that adds lustre and honour to the age. Poetry,
amid this restless and ever-moving people,
still listens to the deathless songs of the inspired
by nature. War crushing in its awful blows, and
echoing its agony through every silent valley called
at her trumpet tones a nation stalwart and strong
to meet in the death-grapple for supremacy. Europe,
startled and amazed, watched from her shores the
wondrous drama. But if the marvellous power and
resources of America astonished her during the
dark and gloomy days of her conflict, how much
more must she have astonished Europe by her sub-
sidence from the panoply of Xerxes to the peaceful
occupation of a Cincinnatus. The example of Wash-
ington, who, after winning his country's liberty,
quietly betook himself to his homestead on the banks
of the Potomac, seems to have been followed by the
heroes of the late strife. Now America challenges
the admiration of the world in a new conflict.
Even while the rattle of Sadowa and Custoza's
rifles echoed the tocsin of many a kingdom's knell,
America was inaugurating the age of Peace. Napo-
leon, with one ironclad arm, is striking in the
dark labyrinths of Mexico for a myth of power,
while with the other and more dextile he seeks to
win auriferous wealth to the coffers of la belle
France. England—irresolute, troubled, and vacillat-
ing, is strengthening her back-bone, and contemplat-
ing the picture which Macaulay drew of the New
Zealander on London-bridge.
America, strong in the record of her successes,
satisfied with her exhibition of strength, now seeks
the prizes of peace on land and ocean.
When the summer winds blew tenderly, and soft
zephyrs were supposed to ripple the august surface
of Atlantic's bosom, a tiny boat came drifting by
breeze, and squall, and tide to the chalky cliffs of
Britain's coasts. So wee and bonny a thing was
she, so light and buoyant did she dance over the
awful waves of the storm-rocked deep, that the
sceptical closed their eyes, and, with most porten-
tous shake of the head, declared " it was a Yankee
dodge." Confirmation, more strong than even lago
whispered in the ears of Othello, made the story
true, and " The Little Wonder," tiny craft as she
was, became a substantial fact. But oh ! how in-
credulous is John Bull ; when the first whisper
of the last race came ticking its rumour
beneath the sea, how many doubts arose.
How ready, how really jealous, were the
press of England. Sentiments, alike ungenerous
and unworthy of a great rival in maritime power,
appeared from day to day. It was a Yankee
money-making speculation ; the owners wanted to
sell their yachts to Englishmen ; they were to be
sailed by hired captains—the owners did not dare
to cross with them. These and a hundred other
unkind things were insinuated and written in forc-
ible language. But the blood that flowed in the
veins of men who manned the ships of a Farragut,
when they steamed by the death shot of a well-
prepared citadel and post, the blood that was im-
pelled through the veins of men whose comrades have
fought either North or South, at Shiloh, Murfrees-
borough, Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellors-
vine, Gettysburg, and battles so numerous that even
a Special Correspondent cannot record them—why
these
resolution men
to
have and possess the same heroism, indo-
mitable courage, steadfast purpose, and earnest
in Battle. win for the cause of Peace they had
And perhaps the writer of this article
may be pardoned for this indulgence of hyperbole,
this almost extravaganza of American feeling. But
puts it to the English Press if,
when
honestly
he
relates
the
following, they will not
share
in all his somewhat rhapsodies. In every
profession we feel a pride
in our own class winning.
John Bright has
thedescription
to
scr Cowes.iption of that voyage so
in person told me he always re-
spects the representative of a.cla.ss. Mr. Editor,
When I arrived
yourhbyere,a n ordersd
found I came
admirably done, my humble pen Was powerless.
But could I forget that the commandef who had
won was the son of a gentleman whom I had re-
presented at Farnsborough—could I forget that,
although I • had fought on many a battle-field,
I found a gentleman who was my companion on
the Prince of Wales' Tour through America ?
Could I forget that Woods of the Times, House
of the Tribune, Andrews of the Illustrated News,
Fiske of the New York Herald, Rawlings of
Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, and Howard
of the New York Times, had been for four long
months together. Could I, when I saw my old
friend Fiske, who had bravely shared the voyage,
when I saw him with an old friend, Colonel Sander-
son, whom we had fought with in many a
battle-field and shared many a stormy hour
with, and bivouacked with, another Col. Anderson
—could any man help feeling proud of his oc-
cupation ?

Who is the winner ? I had written for you on
board the Henrietta all the log. I had prepared
for you the history of this long voyage ; but when
I read the Times, with its inimitable account, my
pen failed to do its office. I knew full well the
hand that had written it, and how feeble my descriptive
power would appear by the side of that which, as an
humble correspondent, I pronounce unsurpassed since
the days when Woods wrote for the Times the
voyage of the Agamemnon. Yet lam quietly told
at 111 p.m. this night, while listening to speeches
and writing with a rapidity which it would have
been well for the King of Hanover to have
possessed before he moved his troops upon the
Austrian and Prussian board, I am told to write
something. Now, if your readers complain that
I have not written the voyage of the Henrietta,
the Vesta, and the Fleetwing, you must remember
the subject has been exhausted in the London daily
Papers.
James
Gor
don Bennett, jun crossed the Atlantic
in the desolate
days of December in the Henrietta.
She was commanded by Captain Samuels, who for-
merly commanded the Dreadnought. The reason
why we particularise the name of James Gordon
Bennett, jun., is simply this : he s Lied in his own
yacht. Mr. Bennett is now the manager of the
organ of the American people. Though youthful,
and having every element of luxury at his command,