arm, presents a fine picture of a speculator "on 'Change." To the left is
Richard Stephens, Esq., Secretary to the Royal Yacht Club, and Master of
the Ceremonies. He is engaged in the enviable task of introducing a party
of ladies to view the richly-adorned cups; and the smile of gallantry
which plays upon his countenance belies the versatility of his talent,
which can blow a storm on the officers of a Custom House cutter more to be
dreaded than the blusterings of old Boreas. That beautiful Gothic villa
adjoining the Club House, late the residence of the Marquess of Anglesey,
is occupied by the ladies of some of the noble members of the club,
forming as elegant and fashionable a circle as any ball-room in the
metropolis would be proud to boast of. But it is time to speak of the
crowd on the beach--lords and ladies--peers and plebeians--civilians and
soldiers--swells and sailors--respectable tradesmen and men of no
trade--coaches and carriages, and "last, not least," the Bards of the
Regatta--

"Eternal blessings be upon their heads!
The poets--"

singing the deeds of the contested day in strains neither Doric nor
Sapphic, but in such rhythm and measure as Aristotle has overlooked in the
compilation of his Poetic Rules; and to such music as might raise the
shade of Handel from its "cerements." Surely the Earl of Belfast must feel
himself highly flattered by the vocal compliment--

"And as for the Earl of Belfast, he's a nobleman outright,
They all say this, both high and low, all through the _Iley Wight_."

Reverting to the aquatic scenery, the most prominent object amidst the
"myriad convoy," is the Commodore's fine ship, the _Falcon_, 351 tons,