The Island seems to beckon one with its tree-crowned heights and wooded bays and sunny beaches. It is never unpicturesque, even from the distance of Southsea or Spithead; near by it is lovely. And never more so than in the early hours of a summer morning when there is a fresh breeze ruffling the water of the Solent and driving even a barge along a good six or seven knots. If one lays a course for Sea View and drops down the coast to Ryde, one can see something of its beauty as Spring Vale, and then that legendary haunt of the fairies and “little people” Puckspool, slide by. Not so many years ago there were those living near Spring Vale who had seen the tiny folk upon moonlight nights (or said they had, which is, of course, much the same thing) dancing on the edge of the shore by the pool, or glassing their tiny, whimsical faces in the water; and children used of summer days to lie in wait for the tiny folk who never came; but now even children are much too sophisticated to believe in these things; and so Puckspool is only a name. Past the lovely woods of St Clare, and then Ryde comes into view. It is a smart “towny” place in the summer, and the serried rows of houses on the sea front and lower slopes of the rising ground gleam at one whitely and uncompromisingly. The spire of All Saints forms a fine landmark as well as an ornament to the town. The town’s reputation with yachting folk rests chiefly, we fancy, upon the fact that it is smart and fashionable, and is the headquarters of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club. As for the anchorage, except in settled and fine weather it has nothing to recommend it. Ryde is dear, as are all the island places, and is more likely to be appreciated by the fair weather sailor and the yachtsman who “does” it because he should than by those for whom salt water, a good handy boat, and plenty of sea room have attractions. It is not a place with much romantic history attached to it, nor was it of great moment in the days when Portsmouth was climbing upwards out of obscurity; indeed, until the commencement of the eighteenth century, Ryde was little more than a collection of fishermen’s huts. Its one excitement in past ages must have been the descent of the French in the reign of Richard II, who burned what there was to burn, as being one of those places where watch and ward were kept for the defence of the island and the narrow seas.