neither touched nor moved to derision, affection, or admiration.

They will glance at the photogravures of our nearly defunct
sailing-ships with a cold, inquisitive and indifferent eye. Our

ships of yesterday will stand to their ships as no lineal
ancestors, but as mere predecessors whose course will have been run

and the race extinct. Whatever craft he handles with skill, the
seaman of the future shall be, not our descendant, but only our

successor.
XXIII.

And so much depends upon the craft which, made by man, is one with
man, that the sea shall wear for him another aspect. I remember

once seeing the commander - officially the master, by courtesy the
captain - of a fine iron ship of the old wool fleet shaking his

head at a very pretty brigantine. She was bound the other way.
She was a taut, trim, neat little craft, extremely well kept; and

on that serene evening when we passed her close she looked the
embodiment of coquettish comfort on the sea. It was somewhere near

the Cape - THE Cape being, of course, the Cape of Good Hope, the
Cape of Storms of its Portuguese discoverer. And whether it is

that the word "storm" should not be pronounced upon the sea where
the storms dwell thickly, or because men are shy of confessing

their good 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
up in big ships may yet take a peculiar delight in what we should

both then have called a small craft. Probably the captain of the
big ship would not have understood very well. His answer would

have been a gruff, "Give me size," as I heard another man reply to
a remark praising the handiness of a small vessel. It was not a

love of the grandiose or the prestige attached to the command of
great tonnage, for he continued, with an air of disgust and

contempt, "Why, you get flung out of your bunk as likely as not in
any sort of heavy weather."

I don't know. I remember a few nights in my lifetime, and in a big
ship, too (as big as they made them then), when one did not get

flung out of one's bed simply because one never even attempted to
get in; one had been made too weary, too hopeless, to try. The

expedient of turning your bedding out on to a damp floor and lying
on it there was no earthly good, since you could not keep your

place or get a second's rest in that or any other position. But of
the delight of seeing a small craft run bravelyamongst the great

seas there can be no question to him whose soul does not dwell
ashore. Thus I well remember a three days' run got out of a little

barque of 400 tons somewhere between the islands of St. Paul and
Amsterdam and Cape Otway on the Australian coast. It was a hard,

long gale, gray clouds and green sea, heavy weather undoubtedly,
but still what a sailor would call manageable. Under two lower

topsails and a reefed foresail the barque seemed to race with a
long, steady sea that did not becalm her in the troughs. The

solemn thundering combers caught her up from astern, passed her
with a fierce boiling up of foam level with the bulwarks, swept on

ahead with a swish and a roar: and the little vessel, dipping her
jib-boom into the tumbling froth, would go on running in a smooth,

glassy hollow, a deep valley between two ridges of the sea, hiding
the horizon ahead and astern. There was such fascination in her

pluck, nimbleness, the continualexhibition of unfailing
seaworthiness, in the semblance of courage and endurance, that I

could not give up the delight of watching her run through the three
unforgettable days of that gale which my mate also delighted to

extol as "a famous shove."
And this is one of those gales whose memory in after-years returns,

welcome in dignified austerity, as you would remember with pleasure
the noble features of a stranger with whom you crossed swords once

in knightlyencounter and are never to see again. In this way
gales have their physiognomy. You remember them by your own

feelings, and no two gales stamp themselves in the same way upon
your emotions. Some cling to you in woebegone misery; others come

back fiercely and weirdly, like ghouls bent upon sucking your
strength away; others, again, have a catastrophic splendour; some

are unvenerated recollections, as of spiteful wild-cats clawing at
your agonized vitals; others are severe, like a visitation; and one

or two rise up draped and mysterious, with an aspect of ominous
menace. In each of them there is a characteristic" target="_blank" title="a.特有的 n.特性">characteristic point at which

the whole feeling seems contained in one single moment. Thus there
is a certain four o'clock in the morning in the confused roar of a

black and white world when coming on deck to take charge of my
watch I received the instantaneous impression that the ship could

not live for another hour in such a raging sea.
I wonder what became of the men who silently (you couldn't hear

yourself speak) must have shared that conviction with me. To be
left to write about it is not, perhaps, the most enviable fate; but

the point is that this impression resumes in its intensity the
whole recollection of days and days of desperately dangerous

weather. We were then, for reasons which it is not worth while to
specify, in the close neighbourhood of Kerguelen Land; and now,

when I open an atlas and look at the tiny dots on the map of the
Southern Ocean, I see as if engraved upon the paper the enraged

physiognomy of that gale.
Another, strangely, recalls a silent man. And yet it was not din

that was wanting; in fact, it was terrific. That one was a gale
that came upon the ship swiftly, like a parnpero, which last is a

very sudden wind indeed. Before we knew very well what was coming
all the sails we had set had burst; the furled ones were blowing

loose, ropes flying, sea hissing - it hissed tremendously - wind
howling, and the ship lying on her side, so that half of the crew

were swimming and the other half clawing desperately at whatever
came to hand, according to the side of the deck each man had been

caught on by the catastrophe, either to leeward or to windward.
The shouting I need not mention - it was the merest drop in an

ocean of noise - and yet the character of the gale seems contained
in the recollection of one small, not particularly impressive,

sallow man without a cap and with a very still face. Captain Jones
- let us call him Jones - had been caught unawares. Two orders he

had given at the first sign of an utterly unforeseen onset; after
that the magnitude of his mistake seemed to have overwhelmed him.

We were doing what was needed and feasible. The ship behaved well.
Of course, it was some time before we could pause in our fierce and

laborious exertions; but all through the work, the excitement, the
uproar, and some dismay, we were aware of this silent little man at

the break of the poop, perfectlymotionless, soundless, and often
hidden from us by the drift of sprays.

When we officers clambered at last upon the poop, he seemed to come
out of that numbed composure, and shouted to us down wind: "Try

the pumps." Afterwards he disappeared. As to the ship, I need not
say that, although she was presently swallowed up in one of the