But from an artistic and natural point of view the scene has always fascinated me. Is it morning? The sun sparkles on the waters, the wind blows free, gulls wheel and turn and squeal, white flecks above the water, swarms of vehicles gather with their loads, life seems to move at a smart clip. Is it noon? A large group of men is to be seen idling in the sun, blue-jacketed, swarthy-faced, colorful against the dark background of the piers. Is it night? The lanterns swing and rock. There is darkness overhead and the stars. [Illustration: The Waterfront] I sometimes think no human being ever lived who caught more significantly, more sweetly, the beauty of the waterfront than the great Englishman, Turner. When one looks at his canvases, rich in their gold of sunshine, their blue of sky, their haze of moisture, one feels all that the sea really presents. This man understood, as did Whistler, only he translated his mood in regard to it all into richer colors, those gorgeous golds, reds, pinks, greens, blues. And he had a greater tenderness for atmosphere than did Whistler. In Whistler one misses more than the bare facts, albeit deliciously, artistically, perfectly presented. In Turner one finds the facts presented as by nature in her balmiest mood, and idealized by the love and affection of the artist. You have seen “The Fighting Téméraire,” of course. It is here in New York harbor any sunny afternoon. The wind dies down, the sun pours in a golden flood upon the east bank from the west, the tall elevator stacks and towering chimneys of factories on the west shore give a beauty of line which no artist could resist. Up the splashing bosom of the river, trembling silver and gold in the evening light, comes a great vessel. Her sides stand out blackly. Her masts and funnels, tinged with an evening glow of gold, burn and shimmer. Against a magnificent, a radiant sky, where red and gold clouds hang in broken patches, she floats, exquisitely penciled and colored--“The Fighting Téméraire.” You would know her. Only it is now the Hudson and not the Thames. The skyline, the ship masts, the sun, the water, all these are alike. The very ship is the same, apparently, and the sun drops down as it did that other day when his picture was painted. The stars come out, the masts rock, swinging their little lamps, the water runs sipping and sucking at the docks and piers. The winds blow cool, and there is silence until the morning. Then the waterfront assumes its quaint, delicious, easy atmosphere once more. It is once more fresh and free. So runs its tide, so runs its life, so runs our very world away. THE LOG OF A HARBOR PILOT