hopes, it has become the nameless cape--the Cape tout court. The
other great cape of the world, strangely enough, is seldom if ever
called a cape. We say, "a voyage round the Horn"; "we rounded the
Horn"; "we got a frightful battering off the Horn"; but rarely
"Cape Horn," and, indeed, with some reason, for Cape Horn is as
much an island as a cape. The third stormy cape of the world,
which is the Leeuwin, receives generally its full name, as if to
console its second-rate dignity. These are the capes that look
upon the gales.

The little brigantine, then, had doubled the Cape. Perhaps she was
coming from Port Elizabeth, from East London--who knows? It was
many years ago, but I remember well the captain of the wool-clipper
nodding at her with the words, "Fancy having to go about the sea in
a thing like that!"

He was a man brought up in big deep-water ships, and the size of
the craft under his feet was a part of his conception of the sea.
His own ship was certainly big as ships went then. He may have
thought of the size of his cabin, or--unconsciously, perhaps--have
conjured up a vision of a vessel so small tossing amongst the great
seas. I didn't inquire, and to a young second mate the captain of
the little pretty brigantine, sitting astride a camp stool with his
chin resting on his hands that were crossed upon the rail, might
have appeared a minor king amongst men. We passed her within
earshot, without a hail, reading each other's names with the naked
eye.

Some years later, the second mate, the recipient of that almost
involuntary mutter, could have told his captain that a man brought