View him holding forth to his auditors between the intervening whiffs
of his soothing pipe, and you see written in wreaths of humour on his
jolly countenance, the spirit of Falstaff's interrogatory, "What, shall I
not take mine ease _at mine inn_?" The most serious moods he evinces are,
when after detailing the local chronology of Cowes, and relating the
obituary of "the bar," consisting of the deaths of dram-drinking
landladies, and dropsical landlords, he pathetically relaxes the rotundity
of his cheeks, and exclaims, "Poor Tom! he was _a good un_." But we must
to the beach, and glance at the motley concourse assembled to behold the
nautical contest.
Was there ever a happier scene than Cowes presented on that day? But to
begin with the splendid patrons of the festival, we must turn our eyes to
the elegant Club House, built at the expense of George Ward, Esq. Before
it are arranged the numerous and efficient band of the Irish Fusileers,
and behind them, standing in graceful groups, are many of the illustrious
members of the club. That elderly personage, arrayed in ship habiliments,
is the noble Commodore, Lord Yarborough; he is in conversation with the
blithe and mustachioed Earl of Belfast. To the right of them is the
Marquess of Anglesey, in marine metamorphose; his face bespeaking the
polished noble, whilst his dress betokens the gallant sea captain.
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