stained by the excesses of manly virtues, had demanded nothing but
the merest foothold from the earth. By the merits of his sea-wise
forefathers and by the artlessness of his heart, he was made fit to
deliver this excellent discourse. There was nothing wanting in its
orderly arrangement--neither piety nor faith, nor the tribute of
praise due to the worthy dead, with the edifying recital of their
achievement. She had lived, he had loved her; she had suffered,
and he was glad she was at rest. It was an excellent discourse.
And it was orthodox, too, in its fidelity to the cardinal article
of a seaman's faith, of which it was a single-minded confession.
"Ships are all right." They are. They who live with the sea have
got to hold by that creed first and last; and it came to me, as I
glanced at him sideways, that some men were not altogether unworthy
in honour and conscience to pronounce the funereal eulogium of a
ship's constancy in life and death.

After this, sitting by my side with his loosely-clasped hands
hanging between his knees, he uttered no word, made no movement
till the shadow of our ship's sails fell on the boat, when, at the
loud cheer greeting the return of the victors with their prize, he
lifted up his troubled face with a faint smile of pathetic
indulgence. This smile of the worthy descendant of the most
ancient sea-folk whose audacity and hardihood had left no trace of
greatness and glory upon the waters, completed the cycle of my
initiation. There was an infinite depth of hereditary wisdom in
its pitying sadness. It made the hearty bursts of cheering sound
like a childish noise of triumph. Our crew shouted with immense
confidence--honest souls! As if anybody could ever make sure of
having prevailed against the sea, which has betrayed so many ships
of great "name," so many proud men, so many towering ambitions of