Presently we passed two ships bound up to Puget Sound,--the “Dashing Wave” and the “Yosemite” (old Neilsen, a Swede, said he used to sail in the “Jo-se-might”),--and then, the fog lifting suddenly and completely, we found ourselves only two miles from the Heads. “Get out an old ensign,” said the skipper to the mate, “and put it in the riggin’, union down.” “Hall right, sir,” answered that individual with much satisfaction, and in a few minutes an old torn flag, reversed, fluttered in the starboard mizzen-shrouds. It was of ominous meaning, for to a sailor it signified “police assistance wanted on board.” And then we remembered the Frenchman below, and wondered what his thoughts and anticipations must be, for of course he knew that a tow-boat had our line. It was a quarter to noon when we entered the Golden Gate under a cloudless sky and caught our first glimpse of the world-famed harbor. A single word describes it,--magnificent. The entrance itself, where the ship moves on between wild, rugged hills that tower sheer out of the sea, is marked with an individual grandeur, and serves to prepare one for the splendid haven within; and when the ship finally glides beyond a certain headland and creeps slowly along in a perfect maze of great wooden and steel sailing ships, with the immense expanse of shining water ahead, the wonderful, perpendicular streets on the starboard hand, and the endless chain of lofty hills on the other, a sensation of pride tingles through you when you think that it is your “ain countrie” that boasts this great, matchless harbor.