might move the heart of the veriest stockbroker if he
would but force his mind to consider them. Look at that dark tremulous
stream that seems to flow over the sullen sea. It is but a cat's-paw
of wind, and yet it looks like a river flowing in silence from some
fairy region. The boats start out of the haze and glide away into
dimness after having shown their phantom shadows for a few seconds;
the cry of the gull rings weirdly; the simulated agony of the staunch
bird's scream makes one somehow think of tortured souls; you think of
dim strange years, you feel the dim strange weather, you remember the
still strange land unvexed of sun or stars, "where Lancelot rides
clanking through the haze." Ah, who dares talk of a commonplace or
disagreeable sea? I used the phrase once, but I well know that the
"commonplace" day offers sights of sober grandeur to the eyes of the
wise man. Happy those who have royal, serene days, lovely sunsets,
quiet gloamings full of stars; happy also those who see but the
enormous hurly-burly of mixed grey waves, and hear the harsh song of
the wild wind that blows from the fields at night!

Autumn is a great time for the wild Sea Rovers who gather at Cowes and
Southampton. The Rover may always be recognised on shore--and,
by-the-way, he stays ashore a good deal--for his nautical clothing is
spick and span new, the rake of his glossy cap is unspeakably jaunty,
and the dignity of his gesture when he scans the offing with a trusty
telescope is without parallel in history. When the Rover walks, you
observe a slight roll which no doubt is acquired during long
experience of tempestuous weather. The tailors and bootmakers gaze on
the gallant Rover with joy and admiration, for does he not carry the
triumphs of their art on his person? He roughs it, does this bold
sea-dog--none of your fine living for him! His saucy barque lies at
her moorings amid the wild breakers of Cowes or "the Water," and he
sleeps rocked in the cradle of the deep, when he is not tempted to
sojourn in his frugal hotel. The hard life on the briny ocean suits
him, and he leaves all luxuries to the swabs who stay on shore. If the
water is not in a violent humour, the Rover enjoys his humble
breakfast about nine. He tries kidneys, bloaters, brawn, and other
rude fare; he never uses a gold coffee-pot--humble silver suffices;
and even the urn is made of cheap metal. At eleven the hardy fellow
recruits his strength with a simple draught of cha