cture the utter cheerlessness of
a wintry dawn at sea. The bravest of men feel something like depression
or are pursued by cruel apprehensions. The solid masses of ice have
gripped every block, and the ropes will not run; the gaunt masts stand
up like pallid ghosts in the grey light, and still the volleys of snow
descend at intervals. All the ships seem to be cowering away, scared and
beaten; even the staunch sea-gulls have taken refuge in fields and quiet
rivers; and only the seamen have no escape. The mournful red stretches
of the Asiatic deserts are wild enough, but there are warmth and
marvellous light, and those who well know the moaning wastes say that
their fascination sinks on the soul. The wintry sea has no
fascination--no consolation; it is hungry, inhospitable--sometimes
horrible. But even there Christ walks the waters in spirit. In an
ordinary vessel the rudest seaman is made to think of the great day,
and, even if he goes on grumbling and swearing on the morrow, he is apt
to be softened and slightly subdued for one day at least. The fishermen
on the wild North Sea are cared for, and merry scenes are to be
witnessed even when landsmen might shudder in terror. Certain gallant
craft, like strong yachts, glide about among the plunging smacks; each
of the yachts has a brave blue flag at the masthead, and the vessels are
laden with kindly tokens from thousands of gentle souls on shore. Surely
there is no irreverence in saying that the Master walks the waters to
this day?

We Britons must of course express some of our emotions by eating and
drinking freely. No political party can pretend to adjust the affairs of
the Empire until the best-advertised members have met together at a
dinner-table; no prominent man can be regarded as having achieved the
highest work in politics, or art, or literature, or histrionics, until
he has been delicately fed in company with a large number of brother
mortals; and no anniversary can possibly be celebrated without an
immense consumption of eatables and drinkables. The rough men of the
North Sea have the national instinct, and their mode of recognizing the
festive season is quite up to the national standard. The North Sea
fisherman would not nowadays approve of the punch-bowls and ancient ale
which Dickens loved so much to praise, for he is given to the most
severe forms of abstinence; but it is a noble sight when he proceeds to
show what he can do in the way of Christmas dining. If