Driven to Bay, Volume I by Florence Marryat

The August sun had just sunk below the horizon, as Jack Blythe, a passenger by the down train from London to Portsmouth, walked leisurely home to a little cottage situated on Southsea Common.

He was a tall, well-built young fellow of five-and-twenty, with a remarkably graceful figure. His hair was pale brown, with the faintest tinge of gold upon it; his eyes were grey and languid in their expression -- his general appearance somewhat delicate. And yet Jack Blythe (who had been christened Vernon) was one of the merriest, most manly fellows in existence. The very fact of his proper name having been mysteriously changed to ‘Jack' was a proof of his being a favourite with his own sex: as for the other, they, one and all, combined to spoil him. Few, seeing Jack for the first time, would have guessed his profession. He looked like a poet, but he was a sailor, and belonged to the roughest part of the profession -- the Merchant Service. He had been educated, indeed, with a view to very different work; but when it was too late for him to enter the Royal Navy, he had intimated his unalterable decision to go to sea, and his mother, who was his only surviving parent, had, with many tears, consented to his wishes. But he was a good son and a good sailor, and she had never repented of letting him have his own way.