Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark, Surround me! * * * * So much the rather thou, celestial Light! Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers, Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence Purge and disperse; that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. —MILTON. “SHIPSHAPE and Bristol fashion,” a hundred years ago, more or less, was a phrase often heard on every sea plowed by American or English keels. Sailors everywhere applied it only to vessels in perfect condition, with bright paint, clean bottoms, spars well scraped, rigging taut, spare ropes neatly coiled, sails without mildew and of perfect set, pumps free, and all the thousand-and-one details that tell of ideal seamanship properly attended to. Those four words paid the highest tribute of the craft to the skill of the hardy mariners sailing from the tidy little port near the head of Narragansett Bay. Bristol’s long streets, bordered from end to end with wide-spreading, aged trees, and lined with great dwellings of the colonial era, savor of a delightful antiquity which has not had time to grow musty, but has been well cared for by successive generations and has a sufficiently close relation to modern life to kindle a real affection in us of recent growth, not unlike that felt by the toddling urchin for his white-haired and gold-spectacled grandmother. These big, old houses suggest comfortable bank accounts, stored up by ancestors who built ships or who sailed away in them to the Indies—East or West—and returned with rich freights that profited much.