Journeys to Bagdad

Are you of that elect who, at certain seasons of the year¿perhaps in March

when there is timid promise of the spring or in the days of October when

there are winds across the earth and gorgeous panic of fallen leaves¿are

you of that elect who, on such occasion or any occasion else, feel stirrings in

you to be quit of whatever prosy work is yours, to throw down your book or

ledger, or your measuring tape¿if such device marks your service¿and to

go forth into the world?

I do count myself of this elect. And I will name such stimuli as most set

these stirrings in me. And first of all there is a smell compounded out of

hemp and tar that works pleasantly to my undoing. Now it happens that

there is in this city, down by the river where it flows black with city stain as

though the toes of commerce had been washed therein, a certain ship

chandlery. It is filthy coming on the place, for there is reek from the river

and staleness from the shops¿ancient whiffs no wise enfeebled by their

longevity, Nestors of their race with span of seventy lusty summers. But

these smells do not prevail within the chandlery. At first you see nothing but

rope. Besides clothesline and other such familiar and domestic twistings,

there are great cordages scarce kinsmen to them, which will later put to sea

and will whistle with shrill enjoyment at their release. There are such hooks,

swivels, blocks and tackles, such confusion of ships¿ devices as would be

enough for the building of a sea tale. It may be fancied that here is Treasure

Island itself, shuffled and laid apart in bits like a puzzle-picture. (For genius,

maybe, is but a nimbleness of collocation of such hitherto unconsidered

trifles.) Then you will go aloft where sails are made, with sailormen

squatting about, bronzed fellows, rheumatic, all with pipes. And through all

this shop is the smell of hemp and tar.