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 champagne, for which he never pays more than twelve pounds a dozen, and then four stalwart seamen row him to the landing-place.  He criticises the mighty ocean from the balcony of the club until the middle of the afternoon, and then he prepares for a desperate deed of daring.  The Rover goes to the landing-place and scans the gulf that yawns between him and his vessel.  Two hundred yards at least must be covered before the Rover can bound on to the deck of his taut craft.  Two hundred yards!  And there is a current that might almost sweep a tea-chest out to sea!  But the Rover’s steady eye takes in the whole view, and his very nautical mind enables him to lay plans with wisdom.  He looks sternly at his gig with the four stout oarsmen; his simple carpets are all right; his cushions, his pillows, his cigar-box, his silken rudder-lines are all as they should be.  The Rover takes his determination, and a dark look settles on his manly countenance.  For one brief instant he thinks of all he leaves behind