View him holding forth to his auditors between the intervening whiffs of his soothing pipe, and you see written in wreaths of humour on his jolly countenance, the spirit of Falstaff’s interrogatory, “What, shall I not take mine ease at mine inn?” The most serious moods he evinces are, when after detailing the local chronology of Cowes, and relating the obituary of “the bar,” consisting of the deaths of dram-drinking landladies, and dropsical landlords, he pathetically relaxes the rotundity of his cheeks, and exclaims, “Poor Tom! he was a good un.”  But we must to the beach, and glance at the motley concourse assembled to behold the nautical contest.

Was there ever a happier scene than Cowes presented on that day?  But to begin with the splendid patrons of the festival, we must turn our eyes to the elegant Club House, built at the expense of George Ward, Esq.  Before it are arranged the numerous and efficient band of the Irish Fusileers, and behind them, standing in graceful groups, are many of the illustrious members of the club.  That elderly personage, arrayed in ship habiliments, is the noble Commodore, Lord Yarborough; he is in conversation with the blithe and mustachioed Earl of Belfast.  To the right of them is the Marquess of Anglesey, in marine metamorphose; his face bespeaking the polished noble, whilst his dress betokens the gallant sea captain.  There is the fine portly figure of Lord Grantham, bowing to George Ward, Esq.; who, in quakerlike coat and homely gaiters, with an umbrella beneath his arm, presents a fine picture of a speculator “on ’Change.”  To the left is Richard Stephens, Esq., Secretary to the Royal Yacht Club, and Master of the Ceremonies.  He is engaged in the enviable task of introducing a party of ladies to view the richly-adorned cups; and the smile of gallantry which plays upon his countenance belies the versatility of his talent, which can blow a storm on the officers of a Custom House cutter more to be dreaded than the blusterings of old Boreas.  That beautiful Gothic villa adjoining the Club House, late the residence of the Marquess of Anglesey, is occupied by the ladies of some of the noble members of the club, forming as elegant and fashionable a circle as any ball-room in the metropolis would be proud to boast of.  But it is time to speak of the crowd on the beach—­lords and ladies—­peers and plebeians—­civilians and soldiers—­swells and sailors—­respectable tradesmen and men of no trade—­coaches and carriages, and “last, not least,” the Bards of the Regatta—­

  “Eternal blessings be upon their heads! 
  The poets—­”

singing the deeds of the contested day in strains neither Doric nor Sapphic, but in such rhythm and measure as Aristotle has overlooked in the compilation of his Poetic Rules; and to such music as might raise the shade of Handel from its “cerements.”  Surely the Earl of Belfast must feel himself highly flattered by the vocal compliment—­