friend.

The air grows chilly, and night has fallen over the river.

_Chelsea._

AN OCEAN TRAMP

I

This evening, as the Italian boatman rowed me across the harbour of
Livorno, and the exquisite loveliness of the night enfolded me, I
thought of you. It may be that the long curving line of lights which
marked the _Molo Nuovo_ reminded me of the Embankment by our windows,
and so carried my mind on to him who waits for his _Vanderdecken_ to
return. Around me loomed the hulls of many steamers, their dark sides
relieved by glowing port-holes, while across the water came the hoarse
calls of the boatmen, the sound of oars, music, and the light laughter
of women. Far down the harbour, near the Castello, a steamer's winches
rattled and roared in irregular gusts of noise. By the Custom House a
steam yacht, gleaming ghostly white in the darkness, lay at rest. And
so, as the boat slipped through the buoys, and the molten silver
dripped from the oars, I thought of you, my friend at home, and of my
promise that I would tell you of the life of men in a cargo-tramp.

I propose, as I go on from sea to sea, to tell, in the simplest
language in my power, of the life that is around me, of the men among
whom I toil. I shall not tell you of these fair towns of the Southern
Sea, for you have travelled in years gone by. I shall not prattle of
the beauties of Nature, for the prattle is at your elbow in books. But
I shall--nay, must, for it is my use and habit--tell you about myself
and the things in my heart. I shall be, not a hero talking about men,
but a man talking about heroes, as well as the astonishing beings who
go down to the sea in ships, and have their business in great waters.

To you, therefore, these occasional writings will be in somewise
addressed. You are my friend, and I know you well. That alone is to me
a mystic thread in the skein of my complex life, a thread which may
not be severed without peril. You, moreover, know me well, or perhaps
better, inasmuch as I am but passing the periods of early manhood,
while you are in the placid phases of an unencumbered middle-age. So,
in speaking of the deep things of life, I may leave much to be taken
for granted, as is fitting between friends.

I offer no apology, moreover, for the form of these Letters from an
Ocean Tramp. Even if I unwisely endeavoured to hide their literary
character under a disguise of colloquialisms and familiar references
to personal in