The yacht costs
about two thousand pounds to begin with, and one thousand pounds per
year is paid to keep her up. Thus it seems that a Rover may have six
sails at the rate of one hundred and sixty-six pounds thirteen
shillings and fourpence per sail! So long as the breed of Cowes Rovers
exists we need have no fears concerning our naval supremacy. Indeed
competent nautical men think that, if any band of enemies, no matter
how ferocious they might be, happened to see a thorough-bred Cowes
Rover equipped for his perilous afternoon voyage of two hundred yards,
they would instantly lose heart and flee in terror. Such is the
majesty of a true seaman. I hope that all my readers may respect the
Rover when they see him. Remember that his dinner rarely numbers more
than six courses, and he cannot always ice his champagne owing to the
commotion of the elements. If such privations do not win pity from
judicious readers, then, alas, I have written in vain! Those who read
this will often be surrounded by strolling Rovers. Treat the reckless
daring salts with respect, for they live hard and risk much.

XXIII.

SORROW.

I have never been disposed to be niggard of cheerfulness; for it has
always seemed to me that one of the duties of a writer is to supply
solace in a world where, amid all the beauty, so many things seem to
go wrong. But, while I would fain banish cankered melancholy, sour
ill-humour, cynicism, and petty complaining, I have never sought to
disturb those who are mastered for a time by the sacred sorrow which
takes possession of the greatest and purest and gentlest souls at
times. There have been great men who were joyous--and they bore their
part very bravely on earth; but the greatest of all have gained their
strength in Sorrow's service. It matters not which of the kings
amongst men we choose, we find that his kingship was only gained and
kept after he had passed through the school of grief. It is a glad
world for most of us--else indeed we might wish that one cataclysm
would overwhelm us all; but our masters, those who teach us and guide
us, have all been under the dominion of a nameless something which we
can hardly call Melancholy, but which is a kind of divine sad sister
to Melancholy. There is no discontent in the sorrow of the great ones;
they are not querulous, and none of them ever sought to avenge their
subdued grief on the persons of their fellow-creatures. The kings bear
their burden with dignity