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.
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