JOHN MACGREGOR 149 



Standing on dry land, and factories to be floating 

 on the river. Spars and rigging, which have 

 hummed with the bright wind of the Indies, hang 

 over rows of callous houses. Here and there is a 

 puff of red flame from a furnace door — a will o' the 

 wisp in a mist of soot. 



The stream would appear to come from a Pur- 

 gatorio of labour, from some spectral workshop in 

 which there is no rest from the dulness of eternal 

 toil. Yet there is something about the place char- 

 acteristic of England, of the obstinate energy of 

 the race, and of its brutal disregard of all obstacles 

 physical, moral, or aesthetic when work is to be 

 done or money is to be made. 



The steamer swings at last towards the sea, and 

 her long journey is begun. The chilled dock quay 

 is deserted save to a few men who are languidly 

 dragging in wet ropes, and a few others who are 

 absorbed in what Stevenson calls that "richest 

 form of idleness — hanging about harbour sides." 



Sir F. Treves. 



A Canoe at Sea •'O -Qy 



(From The "Kob Koy" on l/ie Jordan) 



A T Alexandria once more we launched tlic Rob 

 "^^ Roy to embark her on board the Dclld^ bound 

 for home. Farther out, and tossing in a gallant 

 breeze, was the Ariadne frigate, the sea home of 



