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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 everlasting bondage to the productions of our brain and to the work of our hands.  A man is born to serve his time on this earth, and there is something fine in the service being given on other grounds than that of utility.  The bondage of art is very exacting.  And, as the writer of the article which started this train of thought says with lovable warmth, the sailing of yachts is a fine art.
    His contention is that racing, without time allowances for anything else but tonnage — that is, for size — has fostered the fine art of sailing to the pitch of perfection.  Every sort of demand is made upon the master of a sailing-yacht, and to be penalized in proportion to your success may be of advantage to the sport itself, but it has an obviously deteriorating effect upon the seamanship.  The fine art is being lost.
     

VIII.
     
     
    The sailing and racing of yachts has developed a class of fore-and-aft sailors, men born and bred to the sea, fishing in winter and yachting in summer; men to whom the handling of that particular rig presents no mystery.  It is their striving for victory that has elevated the sailing of pleasure craft to the dignity of a fine art in that special sense.  As I have said, I know nothing of racing and but little of fore-and-aft rig; but the advantages of such a rig are obvious, especially for purposes of pleasure, whether in cruising or racing.  It requires less effort in handling; the trimming of the sail-planes to the wind can be done with speed and accuracy; the unbroken spread of the sail-area is of infinite advantage; and the greatest possible amount of canvas can be displayed upon the least possible quantity of spars.  Lightness and concentrated power are the great qualities of fore-and-aft rig.
    A fleet of fore-and-afters at anchor has its own slender graciousness.  The setting of their sails resembles more than anything else the unfolding of a bird’s wings; the facility of their evolutions is a pleasure to the eye.  They are birds of the sea, whose swimming is like flying, and resembles more a natural function than the handling of man-invented appliances.  The fore-and-aft rig in its simplicity and the beauty of its aspect under every angle of vision is, I believe, unapproachable.  A schooner, yawl, or cutter in charge of a capable man seems to handle herself as if endowed with the power of reasoning and the gift of swift execution.  One laughs with sheer pleasure at a smart piece of manoeuvring, as at a manifestation of a living creature’s quick wit and graceful precision.
    Of those three varieties of fore-and-aft rig, the cutter — the racing rig par excellence — is of an appearance the most imposing, from the fact that practically all her canvas is in one piece.  The enormous mainsail of a cutter, as she draws slowly past a point of land or the end of a jetty under your admiring gaze, invests her with an air of lofty and silent majesty.  At anchor a schooner looks better; she has an aspect of greater efficiency and a better balance to the eye, with her two masts distributed over the hull