concealed in the intricate growth of houses with a few stalks of
mastheads here and there overtopping the roof of some four-story

warehouse.
It is a strange conjunction this of roofs and mastheads, of walls

and yard-arms. I remember once having the incongruity of the
relation brought home to me in a practical way. I was the chief

officer of a fine ship, just docked with a cargo of wool from
Sydney, after a ninety days' passage. In fact, we had not been in

more than half an hour and I was still busy making her fast to the
stone posts of a very narrow quay in front of a lofty warehouse.

An old man with a gray whisker under the chin and brass buttons on
his pilot-cloth jacket, hurried up along the quay hailing my ship

by name. He was one of those officials called berthing-masters -
not the one who had berthed us, but another, who, apparently, had

been busy securing a steamer at the other end of the dock. I could
see from afar his hard blue eyes staring at us, as if fascinated,

with a queer sort of absorption. I wondered what that worthy sea-
dog had found to criticise in my ship's rigging. And I, too,

glanced aloft anxiously" target="_blank" title="ad.挂念地；渴望地">anxiously. I could see nothing wrong there. But
perhaps that superannuated fellow-craftsman was simply admiring the

ship's perfect order aloft, I thought, with some secret pride; for
the chief officer is responsible for his ship's appearance, and as

to her outward condition, he is the man open to praise or blame.
Meantime the old salt ("ex-coasting skipper" was writ large all

over his person) had hobbled up alongside in his bumpy, shiny
boots, and, waving an arm, short and thick like the flipper of a

seal, terminated by a paw red as an uncooked beef-steak, addressed
the poop in a muffled, faint, roaring voice, as if a sample of

every North-Sea fog of his life had been permanently lodged in his
throat: "Haul 'em round, Mr. Mate!" were his words. "If you don't

look sharp, you'll have your topgallant yards through the windows
of that 'ere warehouse presently!" This was the only cause of his

interest in the ship's beautiful spars. I own that for a time I
was struck dumb by the bizarre associations of yard-arms and

window-panes. To break windows is the last thing one would think
of in connection with a ship's topgallant yard, unless, indeed, one

were an experienced berthing-master in one of the London docks.
This old chap was doing his little share of the world's work with

proper efficiency. His little blue eyes had made out the danger
many hundred yards off. His rheumaticky feet, tired with balancing

that squat body for many years upon the decks of small coasters,
and made sore by miles of tramping upon the flagstones of the dock

side, had hurried up in time to avert a ridiculouscatastrophe. I
answered him pettishly, I fear, and as if I had known all about it

before.
"All right, all right! can't do everything at once."

He remained near by, muttering to himself till the yards had been
hauled round at my order, and then raised again his foggy, thick

voice:
"None too soon," he observed, with a critical glance up at the

towering side of the warehouse. "That's a half-sovereign in your
pocket, Mr. Mate. You should always look first how you are for

them windows before you begin to breast in your ship to the quay."
It was good advice. But one cannot think of everything or foresee

contacts of things apparently as remote as stars and hop-poles.
XXXII.

The view of ships lying moored in some of the older docks of London
has always suggested to my mind the image of a flock of swans kept

in the flooded backyard of grim tenement houses. The flatness of
the walls surrounding the dark pool on which they float brings out

wonderfully the flowing grace of the lines on which a ship's hull
is built. The lightness of these forms, devised to meet the winds

and the seas, makes, by contrast with the great piles of bricks,
the chains and cables of their moorings appear very necessary, as

if nothing less could prevent them from soaring upwards and over
the roofs. The least puff of wind stealing round the corners of

the dock buildings stirs these captives fettered to rigid shores.
It is as if the soul of a ship were impatient of confinement.

Those masted hulls, relieved of their cargo, become restless at the
slightest hint of the wind's freedom. However tightly moored, they

range a little at their berths, swaying imperceptibly the spire-
like assemblages of cordage and spars. You can detect their

impatience by watching the sway of the mastheads against the
motionless, the soulless gravity of mortar and stones. As you pass

alongside each hopeless prisoner chained to the quay, the slight
grinding noise of the wooden fenders makes a sound of angry

muttering. But, after all, it may be good for ships to go through
a period of restraint and repose, as the restraint and self-

communion of inactivity may be good for an unruly soul - not,
indeed, that I mean to say that ships are unruly; on the contrary,

they are faithful creatures, as so many men can testify. And
faithfulness is a great restraint, the strongest bond laid upon the

self-will of men and ships on this globe of land and sea.
This interval of bondage in the docks rounds each period of a

ship's life with the sense of accomplished duty, of an effectively
played part in the work of the world. The dock is the scene of

what the world would think the most serious part in the light,
bounding, swaying life of a ship. But there are docks and docks.

The ugliness of some docks is appalling. Wild horses would not
drag from me the name of a certain river in the north whose narrow

estuary is inhospitable and dangerous, and whose docks are like a
nightmare of dreariness and misery. Their dismal shores are

studded thickly with scaffold-like, enormoustimber structures,
whose lofty heads are veiled periodically by the infernal gritty

night of a cloud of coal-dust. The most important ingredient for
getting the world's work along is distributed there under the

circumstances of the greatest cruelty meted out to helpless ships.
Shut up in the desolatecircuit of these basins, you would think a

free ship would droop and die like a wild bird put into a dirty
cage. But a ship, perhaps because of her faithfulness to men, will

endure an extraordinary lot of ill-usage. Still, I have seen ships
issue from certain docks like half-dead prisoners from a dungeon,

bedraggled, overcome, wholly disguised in dirt, and with their men
rolling white eyeballs in black and worried faces raised to a

heaven which, in its smoky and soiled aspect, seemed to reflect the
sordidness of the earth below. One thing, however, may be said for

the docks of the Port of London on both sides of the river: for
all the complaints of their insufficientequipment, of their

obsolete rules, of failure (they say) in the matter of quick
despatch, no ship need ever issue from their gates in a half-

fainting condition. London is a general cargo port, as is only
proper for the greatest capital of the world to be. General cargo

ports belong to the aristocracy of the earth's trading places, and
in that aristocracy London, as it is its way, has a unique

physiognomy.
The absence of picturesqueness cannot be laid to the charge of the

docks opening into the Thames. For all my unkind comparisons to
swans and backyards, it cannot be denied that each dock or group of

docks along the north side of the river has its own individual
attractiveness. Beginning with the cosy little St. Katherine's

Dock, lying overshadowed and black like a quiet pool amongst rocky
crags, through the venerable and sympathetic London Docks, with not

a single line of rails in the whole of their area and the aroma of
spices lingering between its warehouses, with their far-famed wine-

cellars - down through the interesting group of West India Docks,
the fine docks at Blackwall, on past the Galleons Reach entrance of

the Victoria and Albert Docks, right down to the vast gloom of the
great basins in Tilbury, each of those places of restraint for

ships has its own peculiar physiognomy, its own expression. And
what makes them unique and attractive is their common trait of

being romantic in their usefulness.
In their way they are as romantic as the river they serve is unlike

all the other commercialstreams of the world. The cosiness of the
St. Katherine's Dock, the old-world air of the London Docks, remain

impressed upon the memory. The docks down the river, abreast of
Woolwich, are imposing by their proportions and the vast scale of

the ugliness that forms their surroundings - ugliness so
picturesque as to become a delight to the eye. When one talks of

the Thames docks, "beauty" is a vain word, but romance has lived
too long upon this river not to have thrown a mantle of glamour

upon its banks.
The antiquity of the port appeals to the imagination by the long