As men of scrupulous honour set up a high standard of public
conscience above the dead-level of an honest community, so men of
that skill which passes into art by ceaseless striving raise the
dead-level of correct practice in the crafts of land and sea. The
conditions fostering the growth of that supreme, alive excellence,
as well in work as in play, ought to be preserved with a most
careful regard lest the industry or the game should perish of an
insidious and inward decay. Therefore I have read with profound
regret, in that article upon the yachting season of a certain year,
that the seamanship on board racing yachts is not now what it used
to be only a few, very few, years ago.

For that was the gist of that article, written evidently by a man
who not only knows but UNDERSTANDS--a thing (let me remark in
passing) much rarer than one would expect, because the sort of
understanding I mean is inspired by love; and love, though in a
sense it may be admitted to be stronger than death, is by no means
so universal and so sure. In fact, love is rare--the love of men,
of things, of ideas, the love of perfected skill. For love is the
enemy of haste; it takes count of passing days, of men who pass
away, of a fine art matured slowly in the course of years and
doomed in a short time to pass away too, and be no more. Love and
regret go hand in hand in this world of changes swifter than the
shifting of the clouds reflected in the mirror of the sea.

To penalize a yacht in proportion to the fineness of her
performance is unfair to the craft and to her men. It is unfair to
the perfection of her form and to the skill of her servants. For
we men are, in fact, the servants of our creations. We remain in