the glow and color of the sunrise, and the flaming glory of the sunset. When the water flowed in long steady, rolls, there was the emblem of gently exercised but irresistible power. A vessel, no matter how great its size or heavy its burden, was moved as it moved, with the same ease that the wind blows along a winged seed of the dandelion. But it was the fierce motion of the sea that appealed to him; smooth water had but few attractions, and he has painted few and will doubtless paint fewer smooth-water pictures. The turbulence of the sea found a responsive note in his own. soul.

Nor was this all, in the ships themselves, as he grew in knowledge of them, there was a growing attraction. With their bird-like motion, their outspread sails sensitive to every movement of cloud or wind, and reflecting every mood of sky and sun; the ease and grace with which they ploughed their way through dashing waves, this also found a responsive sense within him. Then, too, when out on the ocean in a sailing vessel, he felt himself in close touch with the real things of life. He was away from the shams and frivolities of cities; the conventions that hamper, and restrain, and dwarf, and repress! Here all was bold, open, frank, free and real.

Nature was exposed in the fearlessness of innocence and power.

Needless to add Mr. Grant has been to sea a number of times in every craft imaginable. His adventures properly told by a Kipling would equal those of Captains Courageous. Boat, scow, brig, yacht, schooner, steamer, tramp, pilotboat, on all has he traversed the briny deep. Perhaps what he regards as his

"AHEAD, FULL SPEED!"

66

most notable trip was taken in 1887 on a North American pilot-boat. Going out to Sandy Hook, he was on the station" waiting three days. "On the station" is a phrase used by pilots, and means that pilot-boats, as they arrive at the station, are required in their order numerically to cruise back and forth outside the lightship for the purpose of taking off outgoing pilots, hence the phrase "on the station."

Pilot-boat number twenty-one, upon which Mr. Grant was, soon took number twenty's place and cruised back and forth for three days. Then her turn came and she set off to take her chances, for that is really what it is. A small boat, a mere speck on the boundless ocean, especially in stormy or cloudy weather, absolutely

takes frightful chances of never being seen again. It is not like the fishing vessels that have their own "zone" where steamers seldom intrude, but the very nature of the work of the pilot-boats requires that they stay in the path of the monster steamers that would plough down so small a boat and never know of its existence. The pilot-boats were, at that time, small, staunch, deep-draft schooners, carrying amidships on deck two small yawls, which are launched for the purpose of transferring pilots to boats that may need their services. When signals can be seen in the daytime the signaling is done by means of flags, and the steamer knows that here is the pilotboat, while the pilot-boat on showing her signal is immediately informed by a replying signal on the steamer whether the pilot is required or not. At night the pilot-boat displays a flare at the stern and the steamer has corresponding replies, but it is in a fog that the greatest caution and vigilance must be exercised. On the pilot-boats they have a fog-horn that operates by turning a crank just like a barrel-organ, and if any one grows nervous, he goes and grinds out the signal.

Mr. Grant avows that when, what turned out to be, a four days' fog settled down on them, though he was well used to the seas, he grew nervous. "Yes," said he, when relating the experience, "I felt more nervous and afraid than I cared to show, though I guess the old salts knew all about it. I had often laughed at the weary monotony the barrel-organ grinders must feel when grinding out the same old tune, but I discovered a new feeling that was powerful enough to overcome the monotony of the steady bray or blare of the fog-horn. The pilot had some fun with me, for, turning to the captain he said: Mr. Grant must be fond of music.' I heard him, of course, and replied: 'Mr. Yonkers, if it takes muscle to keep this boat out of danger, I am in a way of developing it very speedily.' The fact is the first night I did n't quit grinding until I was utterly worn out. Ah, those old

frauds, what fun they were having out of me. When I went below I did n't feel like getting undressed and into a bunk. Great heavens! what condition would I be in if we were to be run down and I in a bunk. No, sir! no bunk for me. I stretched out with a blanket on a locker, directly at the foot of the companion-way, so that if anything happened I would be up on deck in a moment. I just settled down nicely one night and my weariness was sending me to sleep, when a roar as of loudest thunder entered my ears and a shock as if we had been 'struck' made me wide awake. I was up on deck in two jumps. What is the matter? I cried. Then they had the laugh on me. A pilot-signal on a foggy night is to fire off the six-pounder every half minute. The return signal from the steamer is two toots of the whistle given at intervals. It was the firing of the six-pounder that had made the welkin ring and scared me so nearly out of my wits.

"It is no easy matter to send a pilot aboard a vessel, especially at night or in a fog. For some time an incoming steamer's hoarse whistle has been heard at intervals of half a minute growing gradually nearer. Then the gun on the pilotboat booms forth over the wild waste of waters every thirty seconds, until out of the gloom and blackness comes the responding answering blast of the steamer's whistle. But in the dark who can tell the location of either steamer or pilotboat? That is a matter that requires considerable training. There are no instruments to determine it. It can be done only by the ear-the most delicate instrument known in the world. Several times the pilot has asked me: 'Where away is the steamer?' and I have answered in one direction only to have him assure me that it was in an entirely opposite one. Hence it is a matter that training only can determine. While the locating of the vessel needing the pilot and the signaling is going on, the pilot is in his cabin putting on his 'best bib and tucker.' Coming on deck the pilot stands amid

ships by one of the yawls, which is lifted by the men on to the rail of the schooner, right side up, ready to be thrown over into the water at the command. The oars are lashed in place, the painter made fast by the man on deck. At his side stand the two men who are to accompany him. At a favorable moment the pilot gives the signal to the helmsman of the pilot-boat to let her come into the wind.' She slews around, the taut sails slacken and shake. The next moment the second command is given: 'Throw her over!' In she goes. Her oarsmen are ready, the pilot leaps to the rail, and when she rises on the next wave alongside the pilot-boat, the three of them jump, the pilot in the stern, the two men at their oars. As soon as they are ready, the final command rings out: 'Let go!' The painter is dropped and two or three vigorous strokes puts a good distance between the two boats. To any but an

experienced and sturdy seaman the pilotboat is a tiny cockleshell, upon that wild desert of tossing waves, but the yawl itself seems a mere fairy craft. Yet it is pulled steadily to the side of the great vessel, which has slowed up for it. Can you see it all the time?' By no means. As the mountains of water rise and fall the little boat is entirely swallowed out of sight, then, as you are lifted, you see it down, down, way down in the trough beneath you. The next minute and you are below and the tiny craft is a hundred feet above you. Yet steadily her oarsmen row in the proper direction. The pilot-boat, in the meantime, 'comes about' and beats back and forth, awaiting to pick up the small boat. It is not long before the pilot reaches the steamer and the ladder is lowered. With his trained and watchful eye he stands and gives his commands, and, at the opportune moment, makes his spring, seizes

the rope and the next moment is on his way safely to the deck, where he is to be the unquestioned king of that great palace, carrying its valuable cargo of precious human lives, mail and commercial treasure. The tiny boat then returns to the pilot-boat and is hauled on board." Only strong men of sturdy, genuine courage, of courage unknown to most men in ordinary avocations, could thus wrest their living from the great waste of waters.

On one occasion Mr. Grant was in a pilot-boat when the steamer "Etruria” passed by in a fog. Said he: "We were Said he: "We were almost directly in its pathway. Another fifty feet to starboard and we should have been run down. I was half dozing when the monster vessel, with a whirl and a roar, like a mountain, was upon us. Imagine a mountain,—not a mere avalanche of snow, but the mountain itself passing by at lightning speed, and within a stone's throw. Literally I felt the hairs of my head stiffen like the quills of a porcupine, and I speak the truth when I say that my cap was raised. But I did not experience that feeling until the ship had disappeared. It was after the danger was over that I awoke to a sense of it. A ship is indeed a living thing, a mighty, powerful, sentient being, and when you become, as it were, a part of its life, then you begin to understand it and not until."

In presenting to the readers of THE ARENA specimens of Mr. Grant's art, I have selected seven representative subjects, which, to my mind, shows the full extent of his work up to the present time. He is yet a young man. He has wisely kept his immature efforts from the public, and, better still, out of the hands of his friends. These pictures show a maturity of handling that demands for Mr. Grant a decidedly high place. They are proof that he can accomplish large things if he will.

"Homeward Bound" is of an old type ship of the early 'sixties or 'seventies. It was ships of this build that made American shipping famous throughout the world

for grace of line, speed and strength. This beauty is well presented in the painting. The fore-shortened "sheer line" is itself the indication of her American build. Here is bounding, spirited, active life. The ship, with all sails set except the top-gallant stay-sail, which is being placed, is partly “light” and on her way home. Everything favors her; a spanking breeze is on her starboard quarter; weather is good; sky is clear; men are happy. The waves themselves are full of life and sparkling with sunlit joy, and many a song, audible and inaudible, goes forth from welling hearts at the thought of soon seeing loved ones again. The picture is a living one. It appeals both to one's emotions and sense of life as well as to the love of the beautiful in form and color.

In "Ahead, Full Speed," Mr. Grant strikes an entirely different note, yet it possesses the same freedom, strength, power and grace. Here is a tramp steamer forging ahead at full speed. The jib and fore-top sails are set with the foresail furled. The wind is on her starboard quarter, so that, sailing nearly before the wind her canvas helps her along. The smokestack can dimly be seen behind the sails, and the sun coming out of the fog shows over the edge of the topsail. With mighty vigor and power the great vessel shoulders her way through the water. while the waves dash up on her port bow. Here rushing power, overwhelming force are personified, especially to one who can see the oncoming vessel as from a small boat in a fog. A distant signal has been heard in the fog, and, almost in a moment, the mountain-like shape looms ahead on the top of a wave out of the mist. One can feel the peculiar fascination such a mass of mystery, vastness and gloomy power must possess when it thus suddenly comes into sight. In this picture Mr. Grant has been singularly felicitious in the handling of the prismatic colors in the dashing of the spray over the vessel's bow, especially in the brilliant glimpse afforded to leeward.