e time such questions, such assurances of respect and
sympathy! I declare I never knew what glory was before.

"Yes, yes; the _Royal Sport Nautique_ is the oldest club in Belgium."

"We number two hundred."

"We"--this is not a substantive speech, but an abstract of many
speeches, the impression left upon my mind after a great deal of talk;
and very youthful, pleasant, natural, and patriotic it seems to me to
be--"We have gained all races, except those where we were cheated by the
French."

"You must leave all your wet things to be dried."

"O! _entre freres!_ In any boat-house in England we should find the
same." (I cordially hope they might.)

"_En Angleterre, vous employez des sliding-seats, n'est-ce pas?_"

"We are all employed in commerce during the day; but in the evening,
_voyez-vous, nous sommes serieux_."

These were the words. They were all employed over the frivolous
mercantile concerns of Belgium during the day; but in the evening they
found some hours for the serious concerns of life. I may have a wrong
idea of wisdom, but I think that was a very wise remark. People
connected with literature and philosophy are busy all their days in
getting rid of second-hand notions and false standards. It is their
profession, in the sweat of their brows, by dogged thinking, to recover
their old fresh view of life, and distinguish what they really and
originally like, from what they have only learned to tolerate perforce.
And these Royal Nautical Sportsmen had the distinction still quite
legible in their hearts. They had still those clean perceptions of what
is nice and nasty, what is interesting and what is dull, which envious
old gentlemen refer to as illusions. The nightmare illusion of middle
age, the bear's hug of custom gradually squeezing the life out of a
man's soul, had not yet begun for these happy-starred young Belgians.
They still knew that the interest they took in their business was a
trifling affair compared to their spontaneous, long-suffering affection
for nautical sports. To know what you prefer, instead of humbly saying
Amen to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is to have kept
your soul alive. Such a man may be generous; he may be honest in
something more than the commercial sense; he may love his friends with
an elective, personal sympathy, and not accept them as an adjunct of the
station to which he has been called. He may be a man, in short, acting
on his own instincts, keeping in